Soul Survivor (Blood Circles 7)
by zenfrodo
Summary: '70s show/AU; part of ongoing series. The missing. The lost. The forgotten. Buried deep within an old mental asylum is a horrifying secret that might mean the difference between life & death - and sanity & insanity - for Joe Hardy...unless he and Frank can uncover what the CIA will kill to keep hidden.
1. Finding

_A/N: MUAHAHAHAHAHAH. Frank & Joe Hardy, their dad Fenton and Aunt Gertrude belong to Simon & Schuster. Those characters & the Hardy canon as portrayed here are from the 1970s TV show, "The Hardy Boys Nancy Drew Mysteries", created by Glen Larson. This tale takes the "Sole Survivor" episode as its inspiration point (screenplay by Christopher Crowe); the characters of Harry Hammond, Leta Manheim, Dr. Kirin Lo, Alan Kline, and Peter Abrams are from that episode & the show. However, the re-interpretation is strictly my own. All other characters not referenced above are completely mine._

 _This is part of my ongoing "Blood Circles" series; the show accepts that paranormal phenomena is real, & I've taken that ball and run with it. The short sum-up: there's a shadowy Association that protects and trains the psychically Gifted, and yes, Joe is one of those Gifted. Check my profile for the story order._

 _(Fast edit & additional note: don't worry. No cotton balls anywhere near Joe's head. I promise.)_

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 _New York City: August 1978._

Joe was missing.

It'd been several years since Frank had been to New York. He and Joe had been looking forward to it: a trip to the Big Apple before they returned to San Francisco and started Fall Semester at SFSU. Dad had taken a case down there and wanted their help — he'd specifically been asked to bring Frank and Joe: a Chinese scientist hoped to defect with his son, who was about their age. The scientist had known Dad during the War, had even met Frank and Joe when they'd been small, and had wanted his son to have US friends to ease the heartache of leaving home forever.

When it was all said and done and the man safe with the US agents, Frank had hoped he'd have time to look up Nancy and surprise her.

But now…

Dad hung up the phone, then sat there, head in his hands, not looking at Frank, not looking at anything. Defeated. Hopeless.

"Still nothing?" Frank said.

The answer was all through Dad's posture.

There had been a fight, a stupid, pointless fight, more variations on the _Joe-you-really-should-be-considering-other-options_ theme, a theme that Dad hadn't let up on and that had only intensified since the whole arson thing that past June. Frank had thought that he and Joe had been fielding it pretty well…but then Joe had finally blown up and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

Frank had gone after him, only to be brought up short by cold, sharp words that made heads turn all over the hotel lobby:

" _Go to hell and leave me alone!"_

Five days ago.

Nothing in the hospitals. No NYPD reports about any accidents involving a crippled young man, not a single thing about anyone matching Joe's description, and Dad had pulled every string he'd had with his buddies still on the force. No notes. No calls. Nothing.

With the defection looming over them, in the middle of New York City, Frank's imagination hadn't let up. Communist agents, Soviet spies, political kidnappings, gang wars, Joe stumbling on some Mafia activity…

Dad had forbidden Frank from searching the city on his own. _"You don't know NYC,"_ Dad had said, _"You could be next."_ Frank hated sitting and doing nothing, but…but…common sense had won out. They'd all been warned about the Soviet and Chinese secret police — all on high alert for this United Nations conference, all watching their people closely, all watching the US side of things even closer — hoping for a chance to grab someone, anyone, for whatever information they might have.

Several times, Frank had started to call Bay Area to talk to Mar and Kris — especially to Kris, their little tagalong with her ability to _step out_. But over such a distance — and Tag had never been to NYC — it wouldn't work. The one time Frank had gone with her to _step out_ had been confusing and disorienting; that had only been around the Embarcadero, and Frank had been knocked unconscious for a whole day afterwards. Asking Tag to attempt several thousand miles, to an unfamiliar city — that would kill her.

No use getting Tag or Mar worried, not yet. Not until there was no other hope.

Frank had tried calling Nancy, if only for a sympathetic shoulder…but both she and her father were working a federal court case in Chicago, according to their housekeeper. No, Frank was alone. Alone, and hoping, and praying…

"Fenton?"

Harry Hammond stood in their hotel room doorway, looking as weary and worn as Dad did. Hammond was Dad's FBI contact and friend; he'd recommended Dad for this defection attempt. Behind Hammond stood Peter Abrams, their federal contact within the United Nations. Abrams looked grim, tight-lipped.

"You found him?" Frank said, before Dad even opened his mouth. Let this have been something stupid. Joe might have looked up Bronx Center, might have just been hanging out there and forgotten to call, or had gotten involved in some crime as a witness, or gotten picked up for jaywalking, or…or…

"We think so," Abrams said quietly.

Dad paled. Frank managed to get the word out: _"Think?"_

Hammond looked away.

Abrams sighed. "Come with us, please."

Dad got to his feet, staggered — Frank steadied him, but didn't protest when Dad's arm stayed around Frank's shoulder. Right now, Frank wanted to be five years old again, wanted to throw a tantrum and scream and cry. He wanted Dad pick him up and hug him and rock him and tell him and Joe it was all right, they were safe, they were both okay…

Frank wrapped his own arm around Dad's shoulders, felt the desperate hug returned.

A gray Lincoln with federal plates waited outside the hotel, with two men in dark suits and Ray-bans standing next to it. They slid in; Abrams had a quiet word with the driver. Frank kept his gaze out the windows, watching the passing streets, the people, the street vendors. Flashes of color, neon signs, bright flags; smells of trash, food, asphalt. A bright, sunny, late-summer day in NYC.

"The Statue of Liberty," Dad murmured, nodding to Frank's right as they turned onto FDR Boulevard. Frank could see it, way out in the harbor. "I took you and Joe up to the Crown when you were little. Remember?"

Frank had been five. Joe had climbed all over the railings, pressing his face against the glass windows and pestering the guides and security with endless _Whyyyyy's._ Frank had only stared out at the ocean, at that vast expanse of blue that blended so perfectly with the sky. For the longest time after that, Frank had thought the sky was just the ocean folded upwards…

Then the car was pulling into a reserved parking spot, right outside a blocky building covered in blue tile on the lower half.

"No," Dad breathed. "Dear God…no…"

Frank felt everything drain out of him. The brass lettering outside the building:

 _City of New York. Office of Chief Medical Examiner._

The morgue.

Abrams sighed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't sure how to break it to you. It's just…we're not sure." Abrams pushed open the door; Frank and Dad followed both men through the silent, white-tiled corridors. "They found the body in the Meadowlands dump yesterday. It's in pretty bad shape."

"That's in New Jersey." Frank felt numb. He couldn't breathe. He could barely stumble forward to follow Abrams and Hammond down the corridor. This couldn't be happening.

Abrams nodded. "It's fairly close, actually. It's a known dump site for organized crime. And not so organized. Like I said, we're not sure. We need an ID."

An ID. So they truly weren't sure. So it might not be. They were grasping at straws. The small offering of hope was enough to keep Frank moving and hold him steady down the long, long corridors and into the cold, sterile chamber.

Frank had done this once before: he and Joe in Paris, after Dad had gone missing while tracking down art thefts in Europe. A cold, clinical, lifeless room of locked metal cabinets. Frank and Joe had stood there, uncomfortable and uncertain, needing an answer but praying this wasn't it, and the Paris coroner had lifted the sheet covering that ravaged body…

The stench of formaldehyde and burnt meat…

Frank recognized the cloth that wasn't burnt to char — the sweat-jacket Joe had been wearing when he'd stalked out, blue with white and red trim — then saw the ring on the little finger. The ring Joe had gotten from Mom, that he never took off. The face: charred beyond recognition. Frank swallowed again and again, fighting not to vomit, fighting not to break down screaming, fighting to stand there impassively and stay calm and adult…and…and…

"Yes," Dad said finally. "That's my son…"

"…that's Joseph Hardy."


	2. Regrets

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, follows & comments: SunshineInTheGraySky, the ever-anonymous Guest, AlecTowser, Wendylouwho10, Leyapearl, Pen4lew, Kdesai, & Xenithia!  
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Harry Hammond stood there as the formalities were completed, the questions asked, the body released to the funeral home, contact information given to send the body to Bayport. He stood there as both father and his remaining son touched the sheet-covered body, palms laid flat against the chest, where the heart would've been. Hammond continued to stand nearby as father and son both collapsed to benches in the hall outside the morgue chamber and their shock gave way to tearing, keening grief: a scene that Harry had seen repeated over and over in his years with the Justice Department.

Father and son. Not "Fenton", not "Frank". Not people he'd known for years. Keep it impersonal. Keep it at a distance. Keep it outside.

Harry walked with them back to the gray Lincoln and mentally sized them both up as they got in. Both were now spent and dazed with grief, but there was something on the son's face that Harry didn't like. Best to stay with them, at least back to their hotel near Battery Park.

Stay calm. Keep that outer veneer of stony impassivity. It helped keep the needed impartiality. Necessity, always necessity. It was the watch-word for all federal agents, especially those involved in the high-level operations, even when those involved didn't agree with the actions decided by that necessity.

But right at the door of the hotel, the remaining son turned. Despite the grief and shock, something else overlaid that young face: implacable anger.

Harry had expected that. It always happened. The first shock of grief and tears passed, then anger would rise, would vent on whoever was closest, the most likely target.

"So is this what you wanted?" the son snarled, from clenched teeth. "We wouldn't spy for you, so now Joe's dead. So now no one else gets him, either."

" _Frank!"_ Father gripped his son by the shoulder, tried to pull him into the room. "Harry, he doesn't mean that."

"I understand," Harry said quietly. He had a son and daughter, too. He did understand, too well. "No, Frank. It's not what I wanted. Not at all."

One-hundred-percent truth. It hadn't been what Harry had wanted. Not like this.

Father pulled son into the hotel room. Harry stood a moment more — no. Nothing more he could do here, and staying only increased the temptation. Best leave them in privacy for a while. He shut their door quietly and left.

Back on the street, Peter Abrams waited by the gray Lincoln. "Well?"

Harry shrugged. Everything he could say, he'd said. It wouldn't make a difference.

"That older boy could cause trouble."

"Both of them will," Harry said, flat, even. Anger wouldn't accomplish anything. "I told you — this is the wrong way to go about this."

"You said." Abrams sounded amused. "Just play your part, Hammond. We'll handle them if it comes to that."

 _When_ it came to that. Harry had no doubt about that. But he kept that silent. "And the Association?"

Abrams's gaze focused out the window on the passing streets. Unconcerned. Uncaring. "The boy's dead. They won't get involved over someone past rescuing."

Harry doubted that, given what he'd heard before the bug had been destroyed, but he kept that silent, too. Given what he'd heard…he had plenty of doubts over this whole operation, over everything.

No. Agents didn't have doubts. They couldn't afford them. Doubt got you killed, by one side or the other.

Harry sighed, remembering what he'd seen on the remaining son's face. _Frank's_ face. He evidently hadn't learned that lesson yet.

Hopefully the teaching wouldn't be fatal.


	3. Awakening

_A/N: Thanks to AlecTowser, MDperryfan, the Anonymous Guest, SunshineInTheGraySky, MoonlightGypsy, Xenithia, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, Drumboy100, & Caranath for the reviews, comments, favorites & follows! _

_Oh, as they used to say when I was a kid: **PSYCH!**_

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 _This couldn't be happening._

 _They cuffed him, they gagged him, they dragged him through an office space reeking of formaldehyde and rotting meat, then they threw him to the floor just outside it._

 _Paralyzed, unable to make any sound, Joe watched in horror as Frank came through that office. Frank halted right at that inner door, and Joe shook his head violently, trying to scream with every inch of his being for Frank to run —_

 _Then they'd struck._

 _Frank hadn't stood a chance._

 _Joe had to watch. He couldn't look away. He wouldn't abandon Frank, not now, not ever. There was no help coming. No one knew where the brothers had gone, and it was all Joe's fault. Joe struggled against the cuffs and bonds. He had to do something, anything, he had to…_

 _The noises finally stopped. Screaming faded to labored breathing. Frank's gaze was fixed on Joe, the intense blue glazed with pain…_

" _Disappointing," Thatcher said._

 _And cut Frank's throat._

Joe jolted awake. He couldn't move, frozen in terror and grief. His raw throat ached with every breath, every swallow. Above him, around him, a plain white ceiling, plain white walls, all shadowed in night, an IV bag suspended above him…

…wait…

Muzzy, head swimming, Joe stared at that bag. A feeder line ran into it, another labeled bag that dripped steadily into the combined flow. The line ran down to his left arm…then Joe realized padded leather restraints held his arms and legs to the rails along the bedside. He was in a hospital gown, covered in white sheets and a light blanket.

Hospital. He was in a hospital.

Swallowing fear, fighting overwhelming panic at the restraints, Joe lay there, waiting for memory to catch up, anything to explain why, what, how. The moment stretched to minutes, then maybe to an hour — Joe wasn't sure how long he lay there, breathing through his fear. He wasn't in pain, not precisely, though his left side — chest, belly and back — itched, and his arms and legs felt cramped and stiff. His head felt foggy and thick, an odd weight that made him think drugs; that'd explain the extra bag on the IV line.

Think. He had to think.

Hospital, check. Restraints — those were used for violent patients. Joe closed his eyes. He was not going to panic. It couldn't be serious, not if Dad, Aunt Gertrude, and Frank weren't here and mother-henning him…

Frank. Oh god.

Joe forced himself to breathe slow, deep. It had only been a nightmare. Just a dream. Frank had gotten him out, had gone for help, had been the reason Joe had survived New Orleans.

That thought was enough of a thread for Joe to follow, step by step, and slowly, hazy memory returned. There'd been a fight…something…Dad yelling…and Joe had cut out. He had a vague memory of walking along a harbor, water lapping along the docks…

… _blood…_

 _Blood pooled over the floor, washing towards Joe in a spreading wave, trickling down to the drain. Frank lay limp and unmoving._

" _I had hoped he'd last longer." Darkness now knelt by Joe, a hacksaw gleaming in the harsh fluorescent lights. "But then again, so did you."_

 _Please, brother…wake up…_

 _Please…_

With a choked-off yell, Joe jolted awake again. Something had touched him —

No, some _one_. Someone stood over him, a shadow back-lit by fluorescents from the hall, their hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't mean to scare you." Calm, gentle. Female.

Struggling to get his panic and terror under control, Joe didn't answer. His heart pounded, he couldn't catch his breath, he couldn't…

"Breathe slow." The woman was middle-aged, wearing a white doctor's coat. "You'll send yourself into cardiac arrest again if you don't calm down. You were kicking up quite a fuss."

"Where —" Joe croaked out. He swallowed, tried again. "Where am I?"

Her hand on his shoulder firmed, a gentle squeeze. "East River Harbor. A hospital."

Well, Joe had guessed that much. "Let me go."

"Do you know your name?"

"Of course I know my _name._ "

Silence for a moment, then, "Well…what is it?"

Breathe, he had to breathe. "Joe Hardy. Please, _let me go!_ "

"Good. You're steady enough to answer that, at least." Her hand tightened on his shoulder. "But I'm sorry, no. Not yet. Not until Doctor Lo okays it."

" _Please."_ Panic overwhelmed Joe again at the word "doctor". Thatcher had called himself a doctor. Thatcher had…

" _Calm. Down."_ Her gentle hand pressed him down. "Before you hurt yourself."

Closing his eyes, Joe forced himself to still, breathing in deep, shuddering breaths. He had to stay calm. He had to figure this out. "Why am I here? What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

Doctors had to be the most annoying people on the planet. "Walking around the harbor. I wanted to see the Statue of Liberty."

"You've lost some time." Her voice, her tone…at that angle, she even looked a little like Mom. "Do you remember Mardi Gras?"

He would not panic. He would not.

"Well?"

Joe closed his eyes. He would never forget, ever. But what this had to do with anything…

"You were there with your brother. Do you remember that?"

The nightmare rose before his eyes: Frank, the blood…

"Easy," the woman said quietly.

Joe didn't open his eyes, his teeth clenched so tight that his jaw ached. It hadn't happened that way. It'd just been a nightmare. "Why are you asking this?"

"You wanted to know what happened."

Make that _most annoying people in the universe_. "That was last spring."

"Yes. It was."

"Stop playing games. I want to know why I'm here!"

The woman sighed. "You know why. You just can't admit it to yourself." She picked up a syringe, injected it into the IV port. "Something to help you relax. I'll be back later."

"Wait…!" Joe forced himself to lower his voice. He would not be left alone, not like this, not tied up. He would _not._ "Please. _Please._ "

The woman waited.

Whatever the drug was, it waved through him, a cold dark fog dragging him under. Joe struggled against it, his voice shaking. "You said East River. My brother, my father. Are they here, too? Did something go wrong at the U.N.?" Then Joe clenched his mouth shut. He was panicking; spilling any information about the defection, no matter how little, would get Dad in deep trouble.

Oh God, that had to be it. Something had gone wrong. No wonder she was avoiding the topic.

She looked confused. "The U.N.?"

Breathe. He had to breathe. Slow. Deep. "Dad and Frank — my brother — we had a case down here." That was probably safe enough. The drug was slurring his speech; Joe yawned. "They were with me. Are they okay?"

"This, again," she murmured, head bowed, then was silent for a long moment. With another sigh, she looked up, her gaze sympathetic. Pitying. "I will talk to Doctor Lo."

She left the room, before he could call her back.

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"Well?" Doctor Lo said harshly.

Leta was careful to close the door behind her, then turned to face the three men waiting patiently outside the room. "He's awake. The restraints are working better than we hoped. He's terrified, but trying not to show it." She smiled thinly. "He was already asking about his brother."

Lo nodded: a sharp, bony Asian man with thinning hair. He wasn't Gifted, but his judgement was shrewd, and his methods got the needed results with drugs and…other…procedures. "The drugs?"

"He didn't even try his Gift, as far as I could tell." Leta sighed, frustration and admiration both. "But his shields are still up."

Five days. _Five days_ in various drug-induced levels of coma combined with varying degrees of ECT, and _still_ Subject 214's shields remained. Leta had never run across the like. While those shields remained, they were limited to passive Gift effects and drugs to control the subject. No one wanted to brute-force those shields down. With that level of training, those shields likely held nasty surprises for anyone who tried. It was a wonder that she'd been able to subvert them even the little she had managed.

"Keep the stress up, then," Lo said. "Diacetylmorphine every three hours. The nurses are not to talk to him, only to collect vitals. We'll press more in the morning."

"Scopolamine?"

"Not yet."

"I still couldn't get through those shields, not completely. I barely hit the surface." Leta looked away. "I did get the nightmare planted, though." That had almost been beyond her ability to bear. How someone so young could survive a monster as that and still be sane…

"Good," Lo said. "He'll crack. They always do."

"Scopolamine would help get through his shields," one of the other men said: Peter Abrams, the CIA man overseeing this particular project. Ordinary to the core, nothing memorable about his appearance at all; one's eyes tended to slide right over him. "Open him up to everything we tell him."

"Not yet," Lo said firmly. "I want to make sure he tolerates the increased diacetylmorphine before we add that to the mix. A dead body is worthless."

"You'd be surprised," Abrams said.

"There will be no more dead bodies." The third man, silent until now, spoke. Square-jawed, dour, every inch a government agent, Harry Hammond stared hard at Abrams. "Not this one. He's no use to us dead."

Abrams only shrugged.

Hammond glanced at Leta. "You said a nightmare."

"Mardi Gras," Leta said. "Those…those killings."

"Really." Hammond sounded genuinely interested. "I'd like to hear the details."

Leta was careful to keep her expression blank. These CIA men all made her sick with the things they wanted to know and try. Granted, East River Harbor was the initial boot-camp for their Gifted "recruits", and just like any boot-camp, the first step was to remove the subject from his prior life to ensure no complications, then break them down, fully and completely. The facility then determined the Gifted's usefulness, their pliancy, their… _willingness…_ to do what was wanted.

If need be, the facility created that pliancy.

They were at war, after all. No bombs, no armies, no nukes — yet — but it was war all the same. The US needed every weapon it could get, no matter the cost. The safety and future of the free world depended on it.

But Hammond was shaking his head. "Not like that. We have a huge question mark over that case. I'd like to be able to close it." Hammond sighed. "He wouldn't talk to me. And honestly, I don't blame him."

Leta relaxed, just a bare degree. That made some sense. Hammond was planted in the FBI, after all. The government hated mysteries, though they had no problems causing mysteries for other people. Normally they didn't care what distress they caused other people by obtaining those solutions or causing those mysteries, either. "I'll see what I can get."

"I'd like to talk to him, too," Hammond said.

Leta caught the look that Abrams gave Hammond, and wondered. "Not yet," Leta said. "It's still the beginning stages. He's hasn't even been here a week."

"Step it up, then," Abrams said. "You're increasing the drugs. Increase the pressure, as well. We cannot waste time with this one."

"You risk shattering him," Leta said. "The process cannot be rushed."

"I'm aware of the risk, Doctor. You have your orders."

"What about the tattoo?"

Everyone fell silent. They hadn't known about that inconvenient design on the subject's skin until they'd had the subject in the facility and had stripped him down for initial processing, and it was too large to expect the subject to simply ignore it. At that point, though, they couldn't back out, not without causing highly inconvenient questions from certain other agencies and liabilities — not that Abrams would have agreed to aborting the attempt.

"Can it be removed?" Abrams, of course.

Doctor Lo frowned. "Removing that much skin is highly dangerous, especially in the abdominal area."

"Still…" Abrams shook his head. "Work around it, then. Something he got in New Orleans, perhaps."

"I concur with Abrams," Doctor Lo said to Leta. "The subject's records indicate that he should be susceptible to more intensive re-programming. And with the increased dosages, he should not realize the tattoo is problematic."

Keeping her face neutral, Leta said nothing. If both Abrams and Lo accepted the risks and potential failure, then any further objections she had were pointless.

"I'm glad you concur," Abrams said.

"He will be ours by tomorrow." Doctor Lo turned away. "I guarantee it."


	4. Decisions

**_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Drumboy100, KDesai, Wendylouwho10 & MoonlightGypsy for the reviews & comments!_**

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 _San Francisco: June 1978_

" _So this is your payback for Nancy," Frank had said to Kris, as he pulled his jacket tighter against the chill. "Us helping you on your ghost hunts."_

" _Could be worse," Joe had muttered. "We could be out on Alcatraz."_

 _They'd parked far down Sacramento Street and were now hiking up the steep hill towards the church mission house. It was late afternoon and chilly, even though it was after Midsummer. Both Frank and Joe wore sweatshirts and jackets; their little tagalong, Kris, was in her usual long-sleeved gray t-shirt, but other than that, didn't seem to notice the cold._

" _I don't hunt ghosts." A duffle bag slung over one shoulder, Kris had glared back at them. "Not like that."_

" _Same difference," Frank had countered. "Someone mentions ghosts, and our little Tagalong has to check it out. If me or Joe died, you'd be setting up a Ouija board by the coffin, I swear."_

 _Shaking her head, Kris went up the steps and knocked on the door._

 _With its dark brick, the building looked more at home in antique photographs than on the streets of San Francisco; it was out of place among the modern adobe buildings surrounding it. It had felt old and solid in a way that its neighbors didn't, a sense of weight, age, and patience. A bronzed sign engraved with old-fashioned block letters hung over the door: "Occidental Board, Christian Mission House."_

" _Look at the windows," Joe had murmured._

 _The usual church-building windows: thin and rectangular, inset deep in the brick, Victorian stained glass in religious themes…but then Frank had noticed something odd._

 _Each window had two circular emblems set on the lower casement, one red, one gold, in elegant Chinese script._

 _Then the door had opened. A chunky, buzz-cut Asian woman in a 'Niners shirt had stood there, frowning when she saw the brothers._

" _Don't mind them, Clara," Kris had said. "They're just here to make sure I take my migraine meds."_

 _Frank scowled. Granted, he and Joe were still learning, but to be blown off like that…_

 _Not here. Not in front of a stranger._

 _They'd been led through a hallway smelling of old varnish and wood to an old oak door tucked under the stairs. The door had been decorated with the same red and gold charms, with a metal sign reading "DANGER: DO NOT ENTER" bolted to the top panel._

 _Clara had unlocked the door in a jingle of metal, handed the keys to Kris, then had vanished upstairs without a word._

" _That's friendly," Frank had said._

" _Tell me about it," Joe had said. "You'd think she'd at least say hi to us friendly neighborhood Ghost Busters."_

 _Kris had only gestured them ahead of her down the stairs, shutting the door behind her. Despite the sign, the basement had been comfortable, if somewhat dark and smelling of old stone: shag carpet, vinyl beanbags, metal folding chairs and tables stacked against one wall, a bulletin board with flyers stapled to it. The room looked just like the Methodist community room back home in Bayport; nothing seemed to warrant the "Danger" sign at all._

" _This place is haunted?" Frank had said._

 _Setting the duffle down, Kris had settled into an arms-crossed glare. "Both of you need to learn tact. There's stories going around that kids were assaulted down here by one of the directors. So no, they're not exactly friendly at the moment."_

" _We didn't know," Frank had said, glaring back._

" _And this place dates back before turn of the century. The woman who owned it back then used it to help Chinese women escape slavery."_

" _Slavery? Here?" Joe had said, with a startled look at Frank. "But —"_

" _Immigration laws at that time banned Chinese women. So girls got brought here illegally and forced into prostitution to 'pay' for their passage. The mission rescued them and hid them down here." Rooting through the duffle bag, Kris had pulled out jarred candles. "During the big earthquake, this place caught fire, and the women hiding down here burned to death."_

" _Take it easy, Tag," Frank had said. "We didn't know any of that. Don't get angry at us."_

" _This isn't about knowing. It's about attitude. The people who ask for help like this — they're scared. They don't need you making fun of them!_ "

" _Tag…"_

" _And we're not those stupid Ghost Busters. Ghosts are_ people _. They died horribly, and now they're stuck, and they're even more scared." Kris set the candles down in a circle. "Think about that. Think about dying and re-living that death over and over — or worse."_

 _Frank could imagine it. He'd seen those deaths, in New Orleans. Joe had nearly been one of those mutilated bodies; his scars bore witness to that._

" _And those red and gold things? Those are to keep the ghosts here. So you've not only got dead people trapped in gods-know-what, you've got living people trying to_ keep _them that way."_

 _Shifting uneasily, Frank had glanced up towards the basement door at the top of the stairs. He'd always been skeptical of the spooky stuff, but when he'd been a kid, the idea of ghosts had scared him witless. Ghosts were monsters, ghosts saw everything you did, ghosts were out to get you…_

 _Kris had looked up in time to see Frank's glance. "You can leave. I'm not forcing you to do this."_

" _And if we do?" Ghosts or not, Frank wasn't about to run like a scared kid and leave Tag here to face whatever it was alone._

" _Then I'll have to wait for when Josh is free." Kris had pulled one of the beanbags into the circle of candles. "I don't do this without someone watching my back."_

" _Then you need to calm down," Frank had said evenly. "I don't like being treated like an idiot. And I really don't like being lectured on attitude by someone being even more rude than we were. Got it?"_

 _Her back stiffened. Kris had stopped, staring down at one of the candles._

" _Easy, Frank," Joe had said softly._

 _But Kris's hands were clenching and unclenching…and then she'd grabbed up the duffle and tried to shove past Frank to the stairs — but he had blocked her, unmoving and unmovable._

" _Running away's for cowards, Tagalong." Frank had laid a hand on her shoulder. More gently, "I know you're having a rough time with Vão and Rafe, but don't take it out on us, okay? Truce?"_

 _Still not looking at him, Kris had wiped at her face, but nodded. "Truce," she'd whispered._

" _There's business, Blade." Frank tried to imitate Joshua's stern, no-nonsense tone; Kris only gave him that_ look _, and Frank smiled. "Get to it, Tagalong. You're supposed to be teaching us greenhorns."_

" _Um…yeah." Her voice cracked; she swallowed, head bowed. "Sorry."_

 _She'd gone back to rooting in the duffle bag and pulling out the rest of the candles, a large abalone shell, and a bundle of white sage; she'd been muttering under her breath, and from her body language, it looked as if she was talking to someone and trying to disguise it. Joe had been looking around the basement, but Frank hadn't been about to ask what he was seeing._

 _The Sight wasn't a Gift Frank wanted, ever._

 _Kris set a notebook and pen in front of Joe. "Um…here. Write down any info you pick up. Especially if it's names." Kris tossed a second notebook to Frank. "And after I'm 'back', get on my case for the same thing, big brother — any names I can remember."_

 _Frank had settled into a lean against the wall by the foot of the stairs, watching as Joe and Kris lit the candles. Kris led Joe through casting a formal protective circle — ritual magic that combined mystic Christianity and Kris's version of Wicca — ending with both drawing their k-bars and laying the blades on the floor in front of them. Frank was to keep a physical eye on the whole thing: keeping out anyone who tried to come downstairs and (as Kris put it) whacking Kris or Joe with a metaphorical baseball bat if they showed any signs of physical distress._

 _Kris had settled into a bean bag and tranced-out, eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep. From his vantage point by the stairs, Frank had watched his brother. At first…nothing. But then the candle flames flared up into long, thin points that stretched easily a foot above the wicks…_

… _and Joe had been reacting to something Frank couldn't see._

" _Joe?" Frank had said._

 _Joe had steepled his hands in front of his face, breathing through them. "She can't be more than five."_

 _Frank had eased down next to his brother, just outside the circle. He didn't dare reach in — that could break the protections. "Easy, brother. It's in the past. Remember that."_

" _It's just…they're all so_ young…" _But then Joe's gaze had fixed on something else — something small._

 _Something moving closer._

 _Of anything his brother could have done, that had spooked Frank the most. "Joe…"_

 _Closing his eyes, Joe had taken a deep breath…then, slowly, held out his hands, palm up._

 _Frank had watched as Joe continued to hold his hands out…then, just as slowly, folded his hands together._

 _It was an image that Frank would remember: his brother surrounded by candlelight, his hands gently cupping something between them — something precious that he would never let go…_

 _# # #_

 _# # #_

 _NYC: August 1978_

They'd called Aunt Gertrude the next morning.

Frank had left the hotel room. He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't take the silence, the blank staring, Dad's sudden obsession with every detail of the defection process…

…Joe's duffle bag sitting by the bureau.

Frank didn't want to even think of calling Mar, or Kris, or…dear God…Jamie. Mar had been — still was — Frank and Joe's foster-mother in all ways that counted; Kris, Mar's adopted daughter, was Frank and Joe's unofficial "kid sister" and little tagalong. And Jamie, Joe's girlfriend.

Frank couldn't face it, not at all. But he'd have to, at some point.

Just not now.

He stumbled into the hotel lobby and collapsed into one of the armchairs there, watching the people without seeing them. The lobby had a hospitality room, offering all-day coffee and bagels; there were several people in there now, talking over styrofoam cups. But he didn't want coffee or bagels. Frank wanted his brother back. He wanted to go back in time to stop the fluffy-haired hot-head before he'd stormed out of the hotel in that stupid huff of a temper tantrum. It'd just been a fight. Dad hadn't said anything they hadn't heard before, after all.

"Joe, why?" Frank breathed, head in his hands. Kris said emotions crossed the boundaries, that strong ties bound spirits to those left behind, that they still heard, felt, watched, and loved, even if you couldn't see them. Frank wasn't sure what to believe. He'd never seen Mom, after all. And his and Joe's ties were just as strong, if not stronger: brothers, best friends, almost like twins, for all that they were a year apart.

Frank wasn't Gifted. He was an inveterate, stubborn skeptic, even now. But Kris had proved to him, beyond any doubt, that spirits existed, that the _after_ was real, though Frank had only seen that endless, frightening gray. Was that all there was, nothing but that gray, the _in-between_? Was Joe trapped out there, even now?

"Joe?" Frank laid his hands palm-up on his knees. Waiting…hoping. For something, anything, a touch, a punch to the shoulder, a laugh, any sign that his brother had heard, was still there…was still _alive._

Nothing.

Joe could See like that: what the Association called Spirit-Sight, along with the mage-Gift and amp. Joe had always claimed to see spooky stuff, things that Frank never saw, yet never failed to tease Joe about: vampires in mirrors, ghosts in basements, fairies in the woods. Frank had ragged his brother about Stavlin and the Transylvania thing for months; even after the whole terrifying ordeal in New Orleans, Frank still teased Joe about that mirror in Stavlin's crypt.

 _Had_ teased.

"Joe, _please,_ " Frank whispered. "Anything. I'm here, brother. I'll believe you this time. I promise. _Please."_

He hadn't believed Joe about Mom. Joe had claimed to see her, but Frank hadn't, had called his brother a liar, then decided Joe had only imagined all of it. But Kris had confirmed that, too. Maybe when Frank got back to Bay Area, Kris could take him back out to that In-between. Maybe Frank could see, could speak, could _apologize…_

…could say goodbye.

God…God… _God._

This wasn't helping. Not in a busy hotel lobby, anyway, not with people looking at him and wondering who the crying idiot sitting slumped on the couch in the corner was. He'd better move before the hotel security decided he was some freaked-out street person and booted him to the street. Frank started to push himself to his feet…and stopped.

Hammond had just entered the hotel and headed for the elevators.

That…that…arrogant…slimy…stiff-necked…he'd taken them to the morgue just yesterday, had hit them with that hard, cruel sucker-punch of Joe's body and death, and here that stiff-necked FBI _suit_ dared to intrude on their grief, wanting Dad to just click along like a automaton and not think, not _feel…_

Hands clenched, eyes squeezed shut, Frank forced the anger down. He wasn't being fair. He wasn't being realistic. Hammond had set up whole defection, after all. Life went on, politics went on, and the Chinese scientist couldn't know what had happened. Making him give up his one chance at freedom wouldn't be right.

Frank watched. Hammond waited at the elevators, not paying any attention to his surroundings. He hadn't seen Frank.

Thinking about it…Hammond was FBI. Since when did the FBI handle defections?

It was odd that Hammond was involved with the defection, especially after tipping his hand so badly in the arson matter that past June, but Frank had put it down to both Hammond's and Dad's high-level connections. Hammond often passed Dad work both under and above the table, work that entailed many things the FBI didn't handle openly.

But this? Now?

… _just in case you start wondering who you really work for…_

And Frank had found that bug in Kris's room, back during the arson mess. Maybe the bug had just been to try to learn the truth of Nancy's disappearance…but…

 _Is this what you wanted?_ Frank had snarled at Hammond, anger flashing out through the daze of grief. _Now no one else gets him, either…_

There was no such thing as coincidence. The Blades ran on that; Frank'd had it pounded into his head. And here was Hammond, in the middle of a matter that his agency didn't normally handle, escorting Frank and Dad to the morgue, standing nearby as the blow was dealt, oozing fake condolence even as he kept control over the situation.

If Hammond was behind Joe's death, if Joe had died because the feds couldn't even _think_ of one of Fenton's sons not working for them…

Hammond got onto the elevator, together with an elderly couple and a family with a crying baby.

Frank was up and moving. Elevator, out of the question. Better to take the stairs: they were only on fourth floor, after all. The delay would give Hammond a chance to get into their hotel room, so Frank could slip up to the door and listen without either Dad or Hammond realizing he was there.

 _I swear it, Joe, if he had anything to do with it, I'll bring him down._

"I'd appreciate some help, brother," Frank murmured as he slipped out of the stairwell door and into the empty fourth-floor hallway. The maid's cart was in the hallway: good. Frank grabbed a water-glass off it and unwrapped it, tossing the paper in the maid's trash bag.

His and Dad's door: closed. Hammond nowhere in sight, but Frank could hear unintelligible voices from inside their room.

Thinking about it — what did Frank think he'd hear? Hammond wouldn't tell Dad, "Yeah, I killed your son," after all. The man wasn't stupid.

Still…

Gently, Frank laid the open end of the glass against the door and set his ear against the other. His heart was pounding; if he was caught, he'd not only catch it from Dad, but he could get Dad in serious trouble with whomever else Hammond was working for.

"…for a walk," he heard Dad say: muffled, but clear. "He's not handling this well." A breathed _God…_ , then, "Harry, get someone else for this. I'm not risking any more — I don't want —" Silence, a choked noise. " _I don't want to lose Frank, too."_

Closing his eyes, Frank breathed slow and deep to calm himself. He forced his hand to relax; if the glass scraped against the door, it'd be heard. Game over.

"You won't," Hammond said. "You have my word on that, Fenton."

Chair scraped against floor, a sudden violent shove. _"I had your word before!"_

Long, long silence. Someone blowing his nose. Choked-back gasps of someone struggling not to break down. Frank's hand was white-knuckled around the glass; he clenched his jaw, fighting back his own rage. Not now. Hold it down. Hold it steady. Stay calm.

"I'm sorry," Hammond said. "You have no idea how sorry." Silence, then, "I didn't want it to be this way."

"I know," Dad said, a bare whisper.

Dad knew? Knew _what?_ And what had Hammond given his word _about?_ But then Frank heard shuffling, someone in the room moving towards the door. He pulled the glass away, then knocked on the door himself. "Dad? I forgot my key."

Frank's voice was hoarse from all the crying he hadn't done and would not let himself do. There was a moment's pause, then someone fumbled at the door knob before it cracked open. Frank pushed it open just enough to slip through, then looked up, letting himself see Hammond.

Frank stared the man down, letting his rage show, that this…this… _suit_ dared to intrude on their grief with his fake sympathy, when all Hammond wanted was to make sure the job would continue.

Hammond only pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then looked Frank over, his gaze resting on the water-glass in Frank's hand.

"Son, please," Dad said. "Don't blame Harry."

"It's the grief talking. I understand that." Hammond's gaze met Frank's. "You'll want to be careful of that anger. It'll lead you into trouble you may not want." Hammond turned, as if to go.

Two could play this game. "So what did you learn from the bug in Tag's room?"

Hesitation. Admission enough. Then the door closed behind Hammond, leaving Frank alone with Dad.

"Bug," Dad echoed.

But Frank had seen something fall out of Hammond's pocket when he'd taken out the cigarette pack: a crumpled bit of paper. Frank set the glass down next to the TV on the low bureau, then, casually — just dealing with trash, fiddling with minute details in an effort to stave off tears again — he picked the paper up.

"We found a bug in Tag's room, back in June." Interesting: Dad hadn't said that as a question. He'd just echoed what Frank said. Frank stuffed the paper in his jeans pocket, then turned to face his father. "When everyone was blaming us for Nancy's kidnapping."

"Like you're blaming Harry for Joe."

Not "like" at all. Frank and Joe hadn't had anything to do with Nancy being grabbed. But Frank stayed silent.

"I'm going to get us something to eat." Dad got to his feet. "Starving ourselves won't…" The words choked off on the unsaid _won't bring Joe back._ "Subs okay?"

Frank held back the automatic _I'm not hungry._ Dad was right. Starving wouldn't help Joe at all. "Yeah. Fine." Frank picked up the remote and flipped the TV on, paying no attention as Dad left.

Then, only then, did Frank pull the paper scrap back out, un-crumpling it and smoothing it against his thigh. It seemed to have been torn from another document, some type of medical record…and Frank's breath caught.

The typed letters _Jo_ , what seemed to be a partial letter _s,_ with the rest cut off at the edge of the rip. And on the back, an ink-stamp, barely legible:

 _East River Harbor._


	5. Mind Games

_A/N: Thanks to AlecTowser, Caranath, Leyapearl, Drumboy100, & Xenithia for the reviews & comments!  
_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

 _Thatcher went first._

 _Bound, paralyzed, Joe wasn't able to do anything but endure, praying for death to come quick. Discarded as so much trash, Frank lay near the drain in the floor; Thatcher made sure that Joe faced his dead brother and couldn't look away. Thatcher's hands were wrinkled, the soft hands of a professor who'd never done any hard work in his life. He tangled them in Joe's hair, yanking Joe's head back whenever Joe tried to look away, to not see…_

 _Thatcher finished, and humming tunelessly, picked up the hacksaw, wiping it clean with a handkerchief. The cloth came away dark red, thickly clotted — Frank's blood._

" _I admit, I didn't expect that of you." The hacksaw gleamed in the light. "I'm sure your brother didn't expect it, either."_

 _From the floor drain, Frank's accusing, lifeless face stared…_

Hands touched him. Joe woke with an in-drawn, terrified gasp. He couldn't move; his arms and ankles were secured tight against metal rails, and he was flat on his back, staring up at a white ceiling pockmarked with water-stains. His left side itched horribly, and he couldn't even squirm enough in the bed to take care of it.

A silent, dark-haired woman in blue nurse's scrubs stood over him, slipping a blood-pressure cuff around Joe's left arm. Her attention stayed focused on the cuff; she would not look at Joe.

"Please…please let me go," Joe said. "I won't hurt anyone. _Please."_

The nurse still didn't look at him. She finished the blood-pressure check, then placed two fingers on Joe's wrist at the pulse-point, her gaze firmly on her wristwatch.

Joe breathed slow and deep. He had to stay calm. Panic wouldn't do any good.

Behind the nurse, movement stirred: someone stood in the corner, watching. Joe couldn't see much at that angle, past the sheets and railing: maybe just a shadow from trees waving in the wind outside. It was daylight outside, though the room was gray with full shade.

The nurse picked up a full syringe.

"Don't," Joe said…but she injected it into the IV port anyway. Warmth waved through him again, a pleasurable rush that moved up his body, from one side of his head to the other, then down his other side, his limbs going limp, his mind fogging. He fought to focus. "Why are you _doing_ this?"

The nurse only tossed the syringe into the trash can.

" _Answer me!"_

Her face turned away, she hurried from the room.

Even through the dope-rush, terror and panic overwhelmed him. What had he done? What was going on? _What had happened?_

The shadow in the corner was back, the sense of someone small standing there. "Please," Joe whispered, "whoever you are — please. Help…"

But then Joe yawned, as the rush settled, bringing a heavy, deep lassitude. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He shut them just for a moment…

… _hands pulled Joe up; he clenched back a scream against the grinding of his broken bones. Then gentle pressure lifted his head, a cold edge of metal just under his jaw._

" _Open your eyes."_

 _The pressure increased, wrenching up to agony as someone twisted his broken hand. Joe opened his eyes._

 _Frank lay bound on the floor in front of him, his brother's eyes terrified, pleading._

" _So, tell me, my boy." The old voice, soft in Joe's ear. "Who goes first?"…_

Joe jolted, choking off the scream before it was more than an agonized gasp. He couldn't move his arms or his legs; he couldn't move at all. He was trapped…he was…Thatcher was…Eyes tightly shut, heart pounding, Joe lay panting, then, as reality slowly re-asserted itself, he turned his head, taking in the white walls of the room, the dripping IV, the ceiling.

The hospital. He was here, not _there._ Just a nightmare, that was all. Repeating that over and over helped…but not much.

There was a clock high on the wall opposite him — nearly two hours later than Joe remembered. His head ached; he felt foggy and slow, his back and side one giant itch. The irritation woke him a little more, and he shifted, trying to rub against the sheets to ease it. They hadn't even bothered to make him comfortable.

In the wake of the nightmare, despite the drug-fog, Joe's frustration, panic, and anger grew. He wasn't getting answers, and it wasn't like his questions were unreasonable. Whatever was going on, their bedside manner _sucked._

Memory nudged him, through the mental fog. Oh… _god_ …he was an idiot. Unexpectedly, laughter shook him. Frank would never let him hear the end of it.

Joe wasn't helpless. If the doctors weren't going to cooperate, fine, then Joe wasn't going to, either.

He twisted his head to look down at the restraint binding his left arm and wrist: soft and flexible, some type of padded cloth or leather. Just barely in view, at that angle, and even after two hours, the drugs made it hard to concentrate. Breathing slow, deep, and steady, fighting the panic down, Joe focused on the restraint. He could do this.

It took forever. His brain felt wrapped in gauze and weighted with lead. But then something turned over, an internal _snap_ that jolted him with pain — his wrist hurt, then it _really_ hurt.

The wrist bindings blackened and crumbled; the smell of burnt ozone and charred leather curled through the air. Joe jerked his arm free, gritting his teeth as the movement yanked at the IV cord, and quickly smothered the few sparks with the blanket. He reached over, fumbled at the restraint on his right arm, worked it loose enough to slip free, then pushed himself up.

Dizziness nearly collapsed him back against the bed. Everything felt leaden and slow, as if he moved through thick water, his head ached from the effort of the magic, and his limbs were stiff from being held in one position for so long. He felt like crap: hungry, exhausted, and weary to bone. His skin and scalp itched with the need for a shower and his hair definitely hadn't been washed for a few days, at least — it hung lank in his face. Joe fumbled the ankle restraints loose, got his legs free, and sat fully up.

Movement again, out of the corner of his eye, small shadows standing against the wall — with a startled gasp, Joe twisted around.

No one there. Great. The drugs were making him hallucinate. Just what he needed.

Giggles whispered behind him.

Just hallucinations. He could ignore them. First immediate order of business: take care of his itching back and side.

His fingers touched small, multiple scabs.

Joe glanced at the door — no noises that indicated someone out there — then pulled his hospital gown up. Brilliant, vivid color splashed over his torso and around his back, fiery reds, oranges, yellows. What…?

As he stared at it, memory returned, slow and hazy: the phoenix tattoo, completed before he'd left for NYC. Joe had finally made it permanent, had sat for hours every day getting poked with needles in a cozy room that smelled of sandalwood and pine. Someone…someone had sat with him during the sessions, cuddling with him, making him laugh as the tattoo artist worked…

 _Jamie._

Arms wrapped around himself, shivering, Joe rocked back and forth. Something was seriously wrong to make him forget _Jamie._

Memory became more solid: scratching was out until the tattoo healed. The scabs would take the color with them and ruin it. The itching wasn't just from the healing scabs — Joe's own magic infused the design, ensuring the colors stayed bright. There was a pink plastic tub on the bed table; Joe found a small tube of skin lotion amidst the courtesy junk and applied it carefully. It helped, some.

Joe rubbed at his temples, trying to clear the fog and ease the headache enough to think, then ow'd — two sore spots, one on each temple, each tender to the touch. Other than that, he didn't seem to be hurt. No bandages, no obvious wounds or marks other than the tattoo; his face felt rough and unshaven. Catheter — that made sense, if they were keeping him restrained. But Joe eyed the IV and drug bags…then saw the label clearly: _diacetylmorphine_ _._

A variant of morphine. That was bad enough, but this sounded familiar somehow —

 _Heroin._

No wonder he couldn't focus. No wonder his memory was weird and he was hallucinating. The other bag was marked _D5W_ — normal IV fluid. But _heroin_ was the Gift-killer. There was no reason to use that on him, not unless these people knew of Joe's Gifts and wanted to counteract them.

God only knew what they were injecting into the IV on top of the heroin, then.

For that matter, for a so-called hospital, the room was barren. White tile floor, white walls. The bed, a formica desk and wooden chair, drawers and cabinets set into the wall, a TV on a wall-mount up in the corner near the window, and under the window sill, a heating/air conditioning unit in metal casing. Aside from the IV and catheter, no other medical equipment. It could've been a dorm room, or a cheap hotel.

But… _why?_

The woman last night had said _East River Harbor_. Joe had a vague memory of seeing the Statue of Liberty, and he'd blurted out something about the U.N. last night…and…a defection…without thinking about it. One of Dad's cases…oh…no.

The memories became clearer: a defection of a Chinese scientist, Dad warning Joe and Frank over and over about Communist agents and secret police…

These people wouldn't tell Joe why he was here? Fine. That meant he didn't have to be. Get loose, then get out.

Breathing slow and deep, Joe closed his eyes, getting his calm back. The IV was just taped down; he'd removed such things before as a kid in the hospital, which usually resulted in angry lectures from Dad, nurses, Dad, doctors, and Dad about sepsis and infection, and tons more tape getting wrapped around his arm. Pulling the tape off hurt, but Joe grit his teeth, gently pulled straight back on the tube at the insertion point, then clamped on his arm for a couple minutes to stop the bleeding. Hopefully he hadn't torn the vein.

Catheter next. That promised to be real fun.

He eased off the bed, found the discarded syringe and used that to puncture and deflate the balloon port. Then, carefully, he pulled the tubing out, clamping his jaw before his yelp became louder than a gasped _ow_. They didn't design these things with male comfort in mind, that was certain.

Giggles whispered behind him again; Joe ignored him. He really didn't need commentary from his hallucinations at the moment.

If he found out this was all Frank's fault, Older Brother would be on kitten-litter-box duty for the next _century_. His head spinning, Joe's stomach was rebelling from the drugs, the movement, and the pain of removing that catheter — people did heroin for _fun?_ They were nuts.

With another deep breath, he pushed up from the bed and staggered over to the room's closet. The shadows at the corner of his vision were back; he ignored them. Hallucinations: not important. Find his clothes, and hopefully his crutch — he couldn't leave here in a hospital gown, that was certain.

Then again, he _could,_ but in the middle of New York City? The cops wouldn't be reasonable about that. Joe would find himself chucked into Bellevue in full straitjacket before he could protest otherwise.

Maybe if he'd had Jamie with him…

Joe cut that thought off before his brain took it into even weirder directions than it was already going. Focus. He had to get out of here. He staggered towards the closet and discovered another door just around the corner of the room's entryway — a small bathroom. The closet didn't have his crutch, but his clothes were bundled in a plastic laundry bag: freshly laundered, from the smell. At least the Commies were considerate. Odd: his sweat-jacket and Knicks shirt weren't there, just his jeans and underwear…

The room door swung open and smacked into him.

Joe shoved it back — a yelp echoed from the other side — and locked it, then looked around the room in panic as the person outside the door started yelling for help. The lock wouldn't hold them long, and right now, Joe didn't trust his Gift — not while under heroin. He needed something to use as a weapon…a distraction…anything!

A key turned the lock as multiple voices in the hall shouted orders.

Joe backed off fast, against the wall and into the corner under the TV's wall mount.

The door burst open. Two men in scrubs and a bony Chinese man in a doctor's coat stopped on seeing Joe in the corner.

"Doctor Lo, I presume?" Joe said, from gritted teeth. His head swam again, an odd pressure right behind his eyes.

The doctor sighed. "Get him back into bed."

Three against one. No telling who else was in the hall, either. Not good. Joe set his back against the wall so they couldn't get behind him. The men in scrubs hesitated.

"You're just making things worse for yourself, Joseph," Doctor Lo said patiently. "Do you want to go back to full isolation?"

One of the men lunged. Joe grabbed the TV mount and yanked down. The whole thing snapped, the TV narrowly missing him. The orderly jumped back, but collapsed with an agonized scream as the set crashed onto his foot.

The mount had broken away from the wall into Joe's hands: two feet of sharp-edged metal.

"I'll remind you that this is a hospital." The woman in the white doctor's coat from earlier had come in. She stopped just behind Doctor Lo, surveying the man on the ground, the broken TV, Joe against the wall. "Lo, David, back off. Get Charles to ER. Now."

"Leta, he's armed."

Keeping her gaze on Joe, the woman stepped around the man on the ground and stopped just outside arm's reach, her voice calm, gentle. "You're scared. You've been scared since you were brought here. It's understandable. You're alone, you're waking up in a strange place —"

"Don't," Joe snarled. The drugs were still hitting hard. Dizziness made his head swim; he couldn't stop shaking. "I know what you want. You're not getting it out of me."

There was a pause.

The woman looked at Lo. "What have you been telling him?"

"I have no idea what he's talking about," Lo said.

With a sigh, the woman turned back to Joe. "This is a hospital." Slow. Soothing. Emphatic. "You've been sick for a long time. All we want is for you to get better. That's all."

The pressure in his head spiked, a sharp thrust of migraine that nearly grayed him out. Suddenly, without warning…

… _Thatcher stood over him, humming tunelessly as he wiped off the hacksaw, the handkerchief coming away red, dark and thick — Frank's blood._

 _By the drain, Frank's lifeless gaze was fixed on Joe._

" _Perhaps you're wondering if you chose correctly," Thatcher said. "It's time to find out."_

 _Bound, terrified, Joe couldn't do anything but whimper, as Thatcher knelt by Joe's feet…_

… _blinding, white-hot pain…_

Joe collapsed.


	6. Truth & Lies

_A/N: Muahahahaha. Thanks to Leyapearl, AlecTowser, Wendylouwho10, Xenithia, Drumboy100, Caranath, Kdesai, MoonlightGypsy, and Goddess Cure Mystic for the reviews, favorites & follows! Before anyone asks, the drugs I name are real, and really were used by the CIA and other agencies for potential brainwashing, mind control, & interrogation. The CIA, in particular, had a notorious program called MKULTRA, where they did illegal & unethical drug experiments against unwitting, unknowing, & unconsenting people (citizens & not). Of course, they claimed they stopped the program back in the '70s...  
_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

"Leta?"

Leta had turned away. Those memories sickened her. She got control of herself, knelt beside Subject 214. Shivering, whimpering, he had curled in the corner, not seeing her, not registering anything around him. "I got in, barely. Get another IV in here, now."

Young man. He. Subject 214. Use his name only to assert control and get his attention. Keep that impersonal distance. Just another case.

Others had lifted the injured orderly out. The other orderly cautiously reached down to the subject, then, when the subject didn't react, hauled him up and over to the bed. No reaction, no resistance.

Lo stood over the bed, surveying the subject. "He burned through the restraints." Admiration touched his voice. "We'll max out the diacetylmorphine dose. Can you hold him until we get the cuffs and IV replaced?"

"Of course," Leta said. The subject's reactions and words had bothered her. As if he was expecting something they hadn't anticipated. She had to find out. "But leave the restraints off. Let me talk to him."

"Are you sure?"

Leta raised her head. "I am the psychiatrist here."

The orderly waited by the bed. Lo hesitated, then nodded curtly. "Do as she says." Then, to Leta, "He's been tolerating the diacetylmorphine and thiopental. I recommend replacing the thiopental with scopolamine."

"Agreed. Full dosage. IV."

Frowning, Lo studied the subject again. "Maybe…add in lysergic diethylamide as well."

"Are you sure?"

"It would increase the suggestibility. Especially if you're going to address certain liabilities. You know they need this one processed as quickly as possible."

Leta thought that over. Even now, the subject's shields were still up, though thin and wavering; she hadn't broken them, had only wiggled through — like working a hand through a chainlink fence — just enough to enforce the REM state and plant the seeds of faked memories. And Lo, damn him, was right: they needed this subject processed and handled before those certain liabilities interfered. But LSD had other…regrettable…effects…

Though that could work in their favor.

"Not yet," Leta said. "Let's see how he reacts first."

She watched as Subject 214 was settled back into the bed, the IV replaced, and the medications administered. Then, only then, Leta let go of her mental grip on the subject and settled into the chair by his bed to wait for the initial hit of the drugs to wear off. They'd scared him, they'd confused him, they'd removed him from everything that could counter their preferred reality.

Now, yank the floor out from under him; dangle the carrot and apply the stick at the same time. Set the subject on the floor _they_ wanted and give him new support. Establish the new framework around him and mold him to it. He was young, he was pliable — once given reasons and rewards to adapt, he would.

If he didn't — or couldn't — well…they would take care of that, too.

An hour passed, maybe a little more, and the subject finally stirred, blinking…then focused on her.

Leta was on her feet and beside him, gently holding him down. "Easy. Don't panic. The restraints are off."

He breathed deeply, again, and again, eyes closed.

"If you promise to stay calm," Leta pitched her voice low, soothing, "if you promise not to try to hurt anyone, we'll leave them off. Deal?"

He opened his eyes again, looking down at his left arm — that arm had been velcro-strapped to the bed rails.

"It's only velcro to hold your arm steady. You've been thrashing a lot. We don't want the IV breaking off in your arm." Leta projected _calm_ as she spoke. _Calm, trust._ The emotions should soak through those shields. Whoever had taught this subject was very skilled at the Gifts — Adept, easily, to be able to hold shields against heroin and thiopental.

That fit with what little they knew of that Association…no matter. She'd work around it.

Then the subject spoke, slow, slurred. Raspy. No surprise, that, given the scars around his throat and what Leta had seen in his nightmares. "That…that's heroin."

Leta let herself smile, gentle and amused. Motherly. "I'm impressed. Yes. Diacetylmorphine."

Suspicion in those eyes. "Why?"

Well, he'd already used his Gift on the restraints. He had to have figured out that they knew of it. "Because you were hurting people." Blunt, but still gentle. "Because you're not in control of your Gift. And you haven't been in any state to learn. We'll step you off of it, once we're certain you won't hurt anyone." To forestall his next question, she answered it. "I'm Leta. I've been assigned to your case." There. Establish familiarity and trust.

Under the double hit of heroin and scopolamine, his shields wavered as his attention faltered — Leta could feel his suspicion replaced by surprise. He scowled as if thinking that through, then shook his head, made as if to struggle to sit up. Leta undid the velcro straps, helped him to sit up in bed. There was strength in those arms, though he was built slender."Why am I here?"

"What do you remember?"

He rolled his eyes.

Leta smiled again: the gentle amusement of a mother talking to a child. He wasn't that old, after all — only eighteen — and Leta had been well-briefed on his past. Something flickered just under the surface of his thoughts, an image too quick to fully catch: a woman with bright blue eyes. "You said some odd things last night. Something about the U.N. and your father."

His shields suddenly firmed, blocking Leta completely out. He said nothing.

So the United Nations: taboo topic. Something his father had been working on, most likely.

"Sometimes the drugs cause hallucinations." Let slip a small confidence. See how he responded. "We had one patient here — he swore up and down that he'd been a chef for the Mafia all his life." Leta sighed; that case had been heart-breaking, but necessary. "He was actually a construction worker from Jersey."

That got a slight, sardonic smile. "Well, I can open a can of soup with the best of them."

"A true master chef," Leta said, smiling back. Joke with him. Humor always established a rapport. "But I'm just looking for a starting point. You've been here some time."

He glanced towards the window…a glance that, oddly, moved to one of the corners before focusing back on her. "How long?"

Leta's own glance swept that corner — empty: good — as she hesitated.

Alarm lit his face; his shields wavered again. He sat up straighter, swayed, caught himself on the railing. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday," Leta said. "August 9."

" _Wednesday?_ I've been here almost a _week?"_

"You've been here nearly six months." Quiet. Even. Project the calm certainty of truth. "Since late March. After Mardi Gras."

A swift, harsh intake of breath. "You're _lying._ "

"This is a hospital. You're a patient here. We want you to get better. That doesn't entail lying."

"A hospital that doses its patients with heroin for no reason," he countered. "Tell me another."

"A hospital that's used to helping those with Gifts as yours," Leta said, still gentle, still calm. This subject impressed her. Even drugged as he was, he was still able to think somewhat clearly. She had to be careful: anger and adrenaline could override the effects of the drugs. "I told you, you weren't in control. We didn't want anyone hurt by accident."

He mulled that over. "So where am I?"

"I did tell you last night." Gentle admonishment, just like a mother. The subject seemed to respond best to that. "East River Harbor. New York City," she added, when he rolled his eyes again. Leta nodded towards the window. "You can see the East River and Roosevelt Island from here. We're on the top floor, so you've got quite a view."

He glanced again towards the window, but didn't move from the bed. "Prove it. Let me call my father."

Good. He was bringing this up himself. It was always better if they did: it felt more real, because the subject assumed it was unexpected. Now to yank away the last bits of support. "You can get up out of bed and look, if you like."

"I _said,_ let me call my dad."

She kept her gaze deliberately turned away. Act reluctant, ashamed. "Your father's the one who committed you here."

" _I want to call Dad."_

Leta was on her feet, pushing him back down. "Calm down." Her voice was gentle, but under it, enough steel to suggest that, motherly doctor or not, the restraints would be used in a heartbeat if he got out of hand.

"He's okay, isn't he? Did something go wrong at the U.N.?" When she didn't answer, he grabbed her arm. " _Answer me!"_

Wait…he'd asked that last night. The United Nations — that must've been the excuse they'd used to get the father and his sons here to NYC. Leta didn't know the details; acting ignorant was always best if it was un-faked. "As far as I know, he's fine. Was that a case your father had before you got here?"

"No, it was —" Then he shut up and settled into a glare. "Nice try. Who are you with, really? The Soviets? Chinese?"

Ah. He thought she was a spy of some sort. Given what Leta knew of this subject's father, it was a reasonable assumption. "I'm a psychiatrist. With this hospital, in New York City." When he didn't answer, she gentled her tone. "Confusion is a normal part of recovery."

Arms crossed, he settled back, staring towards the ceiling. "I'm not saying anything more. Not until you let me speak to my father."

"You don't look anything like a Mafia chef," Leta said, with just a hint of the amusement again: a mother dealing with a stubborn child. "You definitely don't look like a construction worker from Jersey."

He rolled his eyes, his mouth a tight, defiant line.

Leta felt his building rage. Deflect it fast, turn it to the target they wanted. "I didn't mean to pry. You keep mentioning the U.N. I just wondered what you were talking about."

"I want to call my dad." Tight, controlled, carefully enunciated.

"Your _father_ committed you here." Time to add the rest, with every bit of force she could shove behind her words with her Empathic Gift: anger on his behalf, anger for the cold way he'd been betrayed… "He said he wanted nothing more to do with you."

…the cold, unflinching lie.

It struck home. Whatever he'd been prepared to hear, it wasn't that.

She waited.

"Dad wouldn't do that." His voice shook, just a little.

"He did." Leta's tone brooked no argument, allowed no debate. "You had a breakdown after New Orleans. You suffered major trauma — broken bones, crushed trachea, fractured skull, severed tendons and muscles — they weren't even sure you would live."

"I know that." The tight, controlled voice was back. "I was there for that party."

"— and you've been in a dissociative fugue state, ever since you were rescued. We think it was something the killer inflicted on you — some brain damage. Your father tried to keep you home…but…" Leta let her voice trail off, her head bowed, and waited a few seconds as if debating how much to tell him. "You attacked your aunt. You tried to kill your father. They didn't feel safe."

That brought his head up. Leta met that gaze, unflinching, uncompromising.

He looked away first. "What about my brother?"

She pretended not to hear that. "I can have a phone brought in, if you wish." No worry if the offer was accepted: the lines were manned by voice actors. "But your father hasn't been here since you were committed. He said…" Leta met the subject's gaze with her own calm, cool stare: another push, more subtle, but aimed directly at those horrific, implanted nightmares, "he said he couldn't handle knowing why you survived New Orleans."

The words, her implied emotional withdrawal — it shook him: his face paled, his hands clenched in the sheets. "My brother." His last hope, his last connection…and Leta knew it.

Leta only stood by his bedside, her grip firm and calming on his shoulder.

"Frank wouldn't dump me. He'd be here. _He'd be here._ "

"I know. Everything that your father told me about him — yes. I think your brother would've been here, every day."

He hadn't missed the wording. His breathing harshened; his jaw clenched; he was swallowing over and over.

"I'm very, very sorry," Leta said. "Your brother was found in that warehouse with all the other victims."

"You're the only survivor of the Mardi Gras killer."


	7. Shock

_A/N: Happy Easter/Chocolate Bunny/Gorge-on-Candy Day! Thanks to Xenitha, Wendylouwho10, Caranath, Leyapearl, KDesai, & Paulina Ann for the reviews, favorites & follows!  
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Frank wasn't dead. _He couldn't be._ Frank had been the one to rescue him. He'd _saved_ Joe. Joe _knew_ that. _He knew it._

Joe didn't believe any of what that…that _woman_ …had said. He _would not._ This had to be a con, some way to get information out of him about the defection or…or…about Dad…or…or…

But that made no sense at all.

Leta had gone to get a phone. Right now, every inch of Joe's body felt melted into the bed; he was light-headed, dizzy. He'd been fighting the effects of the drugs for the last hour, fighting to stay awake, to keep his shields stable, to _think_. But thinking was hard, staying angry or feeling _any_ emotion was harder, focusing on magic was near impossible, and sleep was too tempting.

Sitting in bed wasn't helping. Joe struggled up, glared at the IV…but, reluctantly, decided to leave it in. Removing it would only get him shoved back in the restraints. Pretend to be subdued and docile, and use that to earn enough freedom to escape.

However, no one had said anything about Joe messing with the dosage. He'd been in hospitals enough, and _Joe_ \+ _bored out of his skull_ = _annoyed nurses_. Joe studied the IV, noted the roll-clamp on the diacetylmorphine line, and rolled it down, shutting the line off. There. Hopefully whatever was in his system would wear off before they noticed. It wouldn't stop whatever they injected into the IV port, but at least it cut off the constant dosing.

Using the IV pole for balance — the room wouldn't stop spinning — Joe staggered over to the window.

Just as she'd said: East River, Roosevelt Island in the distance. A ferry nearby. Joe could even see the Queensboro bridge if he pressed against the window.

This building: gray stone, older construction, turn of the century, at least. Iron bars on all the windows across the top two floors. What he could see through the windows on the lower floors: other patients enjoying the sun and breeze through their open windows, vases of flowers and stuffed toys, a middle-aged man in a Yankees' t-shirt opening another window before turning to talk to someone behind him.

Despite the bars, the window wasn't locked. Joe slid the casement up, letting in the warm breeze and smells of the city. He could hear the middle-aged man's loud laughter and thick Bronx accent, with an answering female laugh.

Open windows, get-well gifts, patients, visitors — American visitors and patients. This couldn't be a secret Soviet thing, then…could it?

Movement again, at the corner of Joe's vision: those small shadows. This time, Joe didn't startle and didn't turn to look. He only watched out of the corner of his eye without focusing directly on them.

He couldn't see much detail that way: long tangled hair, an over-sized nightgown…maybe a hospital gown. Definitely watching him. Not just one: Joe could just make out a second shape huddled behind the first.

 _Will you play with us?_

Joe turned his head —

No one there.

He grit his teeth. Heroin caused hallucinations, and God only knew what else they were giving him on top of that. Or… _or…_ maybe one of their people spying on him…whoever _they_ were. Though as small as they were, they had to be children.

More whispery giggles.

Great. Not only hallucinating, but getting paranoid. It had to be bad when his own brain was laughing at him.

He was also getting side-tracked. Okay. He was in a building close to East River, still in New York City and near the United Nations. That meant nothing. If these were Communist agents, of course they'd be near the U.N., especially if they were trying to stop the defection.

But if they were agents, then why pull such an elaborate charade? If they weren't agents, if this was a real hospital, then _why lie?_

The questions he kept coming back to — and the ones that he couldn't answer. Joe didn't know any details of the defection, and the drugs made what little he did know fuzzy and incoherent. Dad hadn't told them who or when, and had barely admitted that it involved the U.N…and Joe smiled. He and Frank had joked about Spy vs. Spy games, with James Bond puns and _Mission Impossible_ references…well, until Dad stopped them cold with a sharp lecture about the real-world consequences of crossing Soviet agents.

If Joe's memory was right, anyway.

But… _again_ … _why would doctors lie?_

If these people were Communists, they were a wash. Leta had barely been curious when Joe had let slip about the UN — she'd thought he was hallucinating. Doctor Lo had only looked confused when Joe had mentioned it, and the drugs they were giving him confused any information he possibly had. But if this wasn't about the defection, then why had they brought him here?

How could any Communist agents control a big building like this in the middle of _New York City?_

His side and back itched. Joe touched his hip, feeling the pulse of _magic_ woven into the phoenix. Jamie had created it...

" _Hold still." Jamie thumped his side. She'd brought all her inks and brushes up to Joe's room, claiming the light was better, but so far, she'd gotten very little of the phoenix design done._

" _You're tickling!"_

" _It tickled the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that." Jamie tapped Joe's nose, leaving a smear of orange down his face. "Y'know, if you'd get it permanent already, I wouldn't have to keep repainting it and it wouldn't tickle, my Evil Minion."_

" _Maybe —" Joe twisted around, catching her off-guard; the brief, giggly wrestling match ended with him on top of her, smiling down into her eyes, both of them now smeared with wet ink, "— I like all the stuff we do along with it."_

 _Joe's door banged open, making them both squeak and jump — Frank stood in the doorway, with just a hint of his smug Older-Brother grin._

" _Do you two mind? Some of us use our rooms for sleeping, you know."_

" _So you're done sleeping, then?" Jamie said brightly. She hadn't moved from under Joe; her hands prevented him from getting off…of her, anyway. "Oh, good! Care to join us? I could use some additional inspiration."_

 _Joe choked…then saw Frank's face and started laughing hysterically — the only time Joe had ever seen his brother caught completely speechless in shock._

 _Face beet-red, Frank mumbled something and backed hurriedly out of the room…_

Joe stirred, blinking — he'd fallen asleep on the windowsill. The drugs, again. But he wanted to go back to that dream. Jamie had painted and re-painted the phoenix on his skin until Joe had finally decided to go ahead with the tattoo: an act of love and healing that transformed his scars into beauty and fire. The tattoo artist had worked with Joe on the magic, using Joe's own Gift to put power into the image — his spirit made real, made _bright._

No, his memory had to be right. _Frank wasn't dead._

… _Frank's lifeless, accusing gaze…_

Joe turned back towards the window, staring at the trees. Frank wasn't dead. It was only a nightmare. It hadn't happened like that.

… _Thatcher's voice, soft in Joe's ear. "So, tell me. Who goes first…?"_

Shivering despite the warm breeze, Joe crossed his arms. But if it was just a nightmare, then how had he gotten here? And if these people were lying, then _why_ had they brought him here? What did they want?

… _you know why. You just can't admit it to yourself…_

His brain kept running around and around on that. But Joe vaguely remembered walking along the harbor. Before that, there'd been a fight, him and Dad shouting…

… _the things you said — you nearly killed your father — they didn't feel safe…_

It'd been a hot day, heat reflecting up from the asphalt, the breeze smelling of dead fish and cheap hot dogs. Then…hands? Someone grabbing his arm…

" _You got your brother killed." Dad stood over him. "Frank tried to stop you, and — and — you got caught — and now you're telling me —" Dad's voice choked off, thick and raspy with anguish and tears. "—you're saying that you — you let Frank —"_

 _Terrified, Joe huddled against the couch, unable to speak, unable to run, unable to escape, pinned under Dad's accusing glare…_

… _Frank's lifeless gaze…_

 _Dad grabbed Joe's arm, hauled him up, then hurled him onto the couch. "Damn you, answer me!"_

 _And then…fire…_

…a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Gasping, Joe shoved himself up…then collapsed back, gulping air, eyes squeezed shut. He was curled in the chair by the window. He had no memory of sitting down, let alone falling asleep. Leta stood over him, her hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

Shivering, Joe shook his head. He wanted to trust her. She seemed so caring…like…like…Mom…

"Another nightmare?"

A nightmare. _Only_ a nightmare. Joe still felt foggy and drugged; the drugs must be inducing those nightmares. That had to be it.

"You have to face those memories sometime," Leta said gently. "You can't run from them forever."

There were no memories to face. Joe didn't know why she was playing this game, but for now, arguing was pointless. "I thought you were getting a phone."

"The nurses reminded me this room doesn't have a jack, since you're under restricted access. If you want to walk a bit, we can go to the day room. There's jacks there."

 _Restricted access?_ That didn't sound good. "I need a crutch. And I don't want to flash the whole floor." Joe plucked at the hospital gown when Leta cocked her head. "This thing doesn't exactly stay closed in back."

A hint of a warm chuckle. "They are a bit drafty. Your clothes are in the drawers, there. You have a robe, I think."

"Just my jeans." Joe nodded at the closet.

"That's just what you were wearing when you had your last fit — the orderlies don't bother with neatness. I'll go request the phone set-up."

His last fit? As Leta left the room, Joe staggered over to the drawers — the drugs were affecting his already-bad balance; his legs felt like lead — and pulled open one of the drawers at random. Clothes, yes…and he knew them: his own flannel shirts, patched jeans, familiar and worn.

Joe pulled open the top drawer…and his breathing came short and fast. On top of the underwear and t-shirts were several get-well cards, envelopes with Bayport addresses.

The top envelope was from Aunt Gertrude.

He took that one out: definitely her handwriting, that distinctive, flowing script of someone taught in a stricter school than Bayport's public education. It even smelled of lavender, and when Joe checked the envelope…dried lavender petals. Aunt Gertrude used those to scent all her letters.

… _your father will come around, I'm sure of it. He just needs time. I've forgiven you, dear, and no one else in the family blames you. Just get well. That's all I pray for…_

Joe threw the card back and slammed the drawer shut, staggering back against the bed and catching himself before he fell flat. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. It was part of the con. Whatever these people were pulling. It had to be. He would not fall for it.

… _you tried to kill your father…_

Swallowing hard, Joe pulled open another drawer; his robe was right on top. He pulled it out and examined it closely. His old flannel robe. Same plaid, same frayed hems, the small rip in the pocket that he hadn't gotten around to repairing, worn and soft with many washings, all the tiny things that no agent in the world could possibly know or care about.

Mouth dry, heart pounding, Joe staggered back to the bed. The itching had intensified; he fumbled with the skin lotion and reapplied it over the tattoo, just as his room door swung back open.

Embarrassed, Joe yanked the gown back down, but Leta didn't even blink. "That's a lovely tattoo. Did you get that in New Orleans?"

If they didn't know about Jamie, Joe wasn't about to tell them. He pulled on jeans and slippers — Leta said nothing about that, which was odd — and draped the flannel robe over his left shoulder since he couldn't pull the IV through the sleeve — a quick glance at the roll-clamp confirmed it was still down. The phoenix tattoo couldn't be from New Orleans. Not with the pinprick scabs, not with the itching. A small thing, but…

"Something wrong?"

The dizziness surged; Joe felt like he was floating. The drugs, still — heroin's effects lasted several hours. He didn't know what was going on, but if this was some Communist thing, then asking Leta wouldn't get him any straight answers.

A Communist thing…with those letters…with his old clothes.

"Would you like a wheelchair?"

He hadn't used a wheelchair since the casts had come off. "Where's my crutch?"

"You don't have one. Ward rules. Too easy to use as a weapon."

They must've heard about him and Harold Downs. Smiling thinly, Joe pushed back to his feet. The IV pole would have to do.

But Leta took his other arm to support him…and the moment they got past his room door, Joe stopped.

Nurses station behind glass on all four sides, complete with filing cabinets, security monitors, and — Joe stared, envious — one of the new Apple II computers with a bored woman typing on it, a pile of manila folders beside her. Other women and men in scrubs, holding styrofoam coffee cups. Doors lined the halls, some rooms barren, others decorated with get-well cards, stuffed animals, and flowers. Behind one closed door, a man was calling _"Hello?"_ over and over; another yelled and gasped.

"Are you all right?" Leta said.

It _couldn't_ be a Communist thing. Not this…this… _real_ … "That," Joe temporized, nodding towards the computer. He'd also noted the door at the far end of the corridor. "Me and Frank…we…we were talking about getting one of those."

Leta smiled. "More trouble than it's worth, if you ask me. But…the government insists on being modern, so modern we must be. Was your brother into computers?"

 _Was._ No hesitation at all. The question had sounded completely natural. _"Is,"_ Joe said.

Leta sighed.

Joe ignored it. But this — this was a real hospital. It even smelled right: the nose-stinging mix of stale urine and bleach from patients' accidents, burnt coffee, antiseptics, that green powdered soap stuff used to clean up vomit, unwashed bodies. There was no way Communist agents could've set all this up, not in the middle of New York City. No one would do all this for a wet-behind-the-ears teenager who didn't know anything.

"You're shivering. Cold?"

Joe shook his head, as Leta pushed open the heavy double-doors. None of this was making sense. _What was going on?_

"Here we are."

Again, the smells: sweat, urine, bleach, cheap soap. It was a large, open room painted institutional mint-green, windows lining one wall to look out over the East River. Glass covered the opposite half-wall bordering the nurses station, allowing unlimited view into the room. A TV in the corner blared a Yankees game, battered couches and armchairs were set through the room, with dog-eared magazines scattered on worn coffee tables carved and marked with graffiti.

About twenty people here: all male, as far as Joe could tell, old, teenage, middle-aged. Most watched the TV, some cussing loudly and profusely — though others burst out laughing and high-fiving when the TV noise erupted into roars and cheering. Some were in wheelchairs by the windows, though one was bound to his wheelchair, slack-faced and drooling. A sinewy, grizzled old man with buzz-cut hair paced the floor, gesturing and talking, though nobody was listening. Another younger man — dark-haired, glasses, and neatly dressed — sat in an armchair, repeating "Nothing works here, I hate this place, nothing works here" over and over.

A few stood in various spots around the room, their faces blank and empty; two others huddled, moaning and rocking, against the wall. Most only glanced over at Joe's entrance; the pacing man stopped and stared.

Almost everyone was in normal clothes; only the one bound to the wheelchair was in a gown with an IV, as Joe was. Hospital patients in street clothes?

Then again, Leta had implied this place was for long-term care — Gramma Kelly wore her usual nightgowns at the nursing home, after all. That had to be why Leta hadn't said anything about Joe wearing jeans.

Long-term care…Joe swallowed. _No._

Leta steered Joe towards the nurses' wall and a battered pleather couch; a beige touch-tone phone sat on the coffee table. "The red button's the outside line." She hesitated. "If you call long-distance…well…you'll have to dial zero for the operator and reverse charges. Would you prefer privacy?"

She was offering to leave him alone? Then again, the nurses were right there, just through the window. No doubt they monitored all the phone conversations, hospital or not. Nodding, Joe waited until Leta left, but saw her enter the nurses station. Still, she didn't seem to be watching him.

Stop stalling. Call already. But Joe hesitated. They'd expect him to call Bayport. They might have that number intercepted. If…if…this was a Communist thing, they'd be ready for that. Joe took a moment, breathing slowly, trying to focus and remember past the heavy haze of drugs. He picked up the phone, hit the red button, heard normal dial tone, then hit zero and waited for the operator…

…and gave her Mar's number at Bay Area Center, with a request to reverse charges.

Then…

" _The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again."_

Okay, he'd just gotten the number wrong. Joe got the operator, tried again.

" _The number you have dialed is not in service."_

It had to be the drugs; he still felt loopy and dizzy. He was mis-remembering the number. Joe glanced at the roll-clamp: still down. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths to calm down. Directory assistance, then. No big deal.

" _I'm sorry, there's no such name listed."_

Wait…Mar kept her number private, because of Kris's original parents. "Sorry. I forgot she's unlisted. AHRD Security, then." Joe waited, then spelled it out…and again…and again, with just AHRD, then the _Association for Human Research and Development…_ then, finally, just the address.

No such listings, no such address, nothing even close.

Slowly, Joe set the handset back into the cradle. He had to calm down. Panic wouldn't help. Maybe something had happened and the Center had gone unlisted. Bayport, then…no, wait. Dad and Frank would still be at the hotel and worried sick. But…

Don't panic. _Don't panic._

Joe knocked on the nurses' window. "Can I have a phone book, please?"

She slid the small panel open and passed Joe the phone book by their own office phone. A white sticker was on the front of the phone book: _Property of East River Harbor Psychiatric Hospital._

He was in an _insane asylum?_ A _nut house?_

Now real fear started to crawl up, but Joe closed his eyes, breathed slow and deep until the panic was manageable, then found the hotel number, but this time, he hit one of the white buttons, instead of the red. Now to see what the real set-up was.

A brisk female voice answered. "Front desk, Kim speaking."

Without a word, Joe hung up. Internal lines. With a sigh, he tried the hotel number again, this time with the red button.

"Ramada, Battery Park."

Stay calm. Panicking at the desk clerk wouldn't help anything. But then Joe's mind went blank — he couldn't remember the name Dad had registered them under. Robinson? Fredericks? "Room 415, please."

Clicks, then it picked up on the first ring. A soft female voice. "Hello?"

Maybe one of Dad's contacts. "I need to speak to Fenton, please. Or Frank."

"Excuse me?"

"Fenton or Frank Hardy." Somehow Joe kept his voice calm. "They might be using Robinson. Or Fredericks. Or…"

"You have the wrong room. I'm the only person here. Sorry." With a click, the line went dead.

"Ya won't get anywhere with that."

Joe looked up. The grizzled old man stood over him.

"They won't let ya out." The man had a thick Bronx accent; he was missing one of his front teeth, the remaining yellow and crooked. "Better accept it, sonny. They won't let ya out."

"'They'?" Joe said.

The old man snorted. "Them. OSS. CIA. EPA. FCC. _You_ know. The TLA's. They're taking on them Russkies, just like they did in '52." He sat down next to Joe, stretched his legs out; he smelled of cheap cigarettes and sweat. "Better be careful or you'll wind up like Johnny. Johnny the bonny, brains all mush and milk…ain't that right, Seamus? Tell 'im I'm right."

No one else was near them. "Which one's Johnny?"

The old man only wobbled back to his feet, picking up his conversation with the air, muttering and gesturing.

A crazy old man in a mental ward claiming CIA. But Joe watched him; the man wasn't alone any more. A haggard, bone-thin man in badly-fitting clothing now shuffled alongside the old man.

But as Joe watched, one of the guys at the TV got up, stretched, and headed towards the nurses station — and walked right through the haggard man.

Oh…dear…God. Joe's breath caught; slowly he stared around the room. Now that he was paying attention, he could see it clearly. Two who stood along the wall, staring off into space, another huddled on the ground, rocking back and forth, one standing in the middle of the room: ragged clothes, open sores, shaved heads, indeterminate gender…

All faintly transparent.

Joe had read about old asylums and the horrific conditions people endured there, even now, despite the recent reforms. Kris had told him and Frank how bad the hauntings were in such places, due to patients dying of abuse, neglect, and the torture that passed for medical care. If the drugs were forcing his Sight wide open…

Calm down. Even without the crutch, even if the heroin had hampered his mage-Gift, everyone at Bay Area had spent the summer drilling him in defensive skills. Joe still had his shields. Jaw clenched, he picked the phone back up and gave the operator his home phone number in Bayport.

One ring, two…three…then it picked up.

"Hello?"

Joe bit back his relieved gasp. _Dad!_

"I have a collect call from Joe Hardy," the operator said. "Will you accept the charges?"

Silence.

"Sir? Will you accept the charges?"

"I don't know anyone by that name," Dad said…

…and hung up.

Joe couldn't have heard that. Dad wouldn't do that. He always accepted charges, no matter what. His hands shaking, Joe tried again, confirmed the number and his name to the operator. This time, it picked up on the second ring.

"Sir, I have a collect call from Joe Hardy. Are we reaching —"

"Dad, it's me, Joe," Joe said, hoping Dad could hear him over the operator. "I need help. Don't hang up, _please._ "

"I no longer have a son by that name." From clenched teeth. "Stop calling here."

The line went dead.


	8. Planning

_A/N: Thanks to Paulina Ann, Wendylouwho10, Leyapearl, AlecTowser, & Xenitha for the reviews & comments!  
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Frank didn't know what to think. A piece of paper with an _East River Harbor_ stamp and a torn-off, incomplete "Jos" weren't the most definite of leads. But it was the only lead he had.

Lead to what — that was the question.

Dad had gone for subs. The sub-shop was next door to the hotel — Dad could've called and had them delivered, but Frank didn't blame him for wanting to get out. Frank didn't want to sit here, either, not with Joe's duffle bag sitting right there by the TV, memory and accusation both.

Joe had said it when they'd been searching for Dad last summer, when Inspector Stavlin had tried to convince the brothers to go home and leave Dad's disappearance to Interpol.

" _Waiting isn't exactly our strong suit."_

There was no such thing as coincidence. Frank and Joe had only been training as Blades for three months — "training" laughingly used in conjunction with "on the job" — but that had gotten pounded into their skulls. The Blades had a number of things they called "run-rules": reality checks, things to get you to stop and think a situation through. There was no such thing as coincidence. If you're ready to ask the question, you're ready for the answer. Be aware of your choice…

A big question now lay in Frank's hand. And he wanted the answer.

With a deep breath, Frank picked up the phone book from the night stand. _C…D…E…_ there, _East River Harbor Psychiatric Asylum._

A psychiatric asylum? Frank stared at that entry, a sudden chill going up his spine. Dad had called all the hospitals in the area in their initial search, hoping beyond hope that Joe was only hurt and unable to make contact on his own, was anything but dead…but…an insane asylum?

That didn't make sense. Why would Hammond have anything from a place like that in his pocket?

Lead or not, Frank would take it, no matter how slim. He jotted the address down on the back of the torn scrap, shoved it into his pocket and started to head out…then stopped, went back to his suitcase for the quartz crystal, the pre-set that Joe had made for him — not shields, but the mouse-trick, Joe quipping about Romulan cloaking devices _—_ and tucked that in his pocket, too.

Over the summer, Joe had figured out how to place live shields on Frank without needing the physical focus of crystals. But with Joe dead, Frank had no way to tell if those shields were still active, or even if the pre-set still worked. Still, better safe than sorry.

Frank slowed when he entered the hotel lobby — he didn't see Dad or Hammond, though if Hammond was mage-Gifted like Kris and Joe claimed, that didn't necessarily mean anything. Not that it mattered. Frank would keep going, keep digging, keep investigating until he found out what had happened to his brother, no matter who, no matter what. He owed Joe so much more…but it was all Frank could give, now.

He had to stay calm. There would be plenty of time for tears later.

Not to mention revenge — once he had a target.

There was usually a taxi or two waiting outside the hotel…but this time, something else waited, too, and luckily Frank spotted Hammond first. There, out on the sidewalk in the bright sunshine, Hammond was talking to Dad and…Abrams?

Frank held himself back in the dark of the hotel lobby to watch through the windows. Dad looked angry, Hammond and Abrams stone-faced, though Hammond was shaking his head. Finally Dad went into the sub shop; both Hammond and Abrams stared after him, then, with dismissive gestures, got into the gray Lincoln.

Frank waited until the Lincoln had its blinkers on, then stepped out and got into one of the waiting taxis. The cabbie startled, blinking around in confusion as Frank dug into his pockets for money.

"Here." Frank pulled out a fifty, tore it in two, handed one half to the cabbie. "That gray Lincoln just pulling out. Follow it. You'll get the second half of this if you keep up with it. But not too close — I don't want them knowing it."

The cabbie put the taxi in gear and pulled out into traffic after the Lincoln. "Your funeral, mac."

Frank was violating every single rule Dad had ever told him about dealing with New York taxi drivers. Frank didn't care. If the cabbie tailed Hammond and Abrams to wherever they were going, it would be worth anything Frank could pay the man, especially if it led to…to…

Breathe. Cry later. Focus on the case at hand.

To distract himself, Frank paid close attention to street signs, neighborhoods, landmarks. The gray Lincoln didn't seem to be in any hurry and didn't act like its driver knew it was being followed. A turn onto FDR Boulevard, up along the East River, then another turn, and the Lincoln pulled into the entry drive for a large, old building of brick and gray stone.

The sign out front: _East River Harbor Psychiatric Hospital._

"Don't pull in," Frank said to the cabbie. "Let me out here, please." Frank glanced at the meter: three bucks. He pulled out a five, handed it to the cabbie along with the other half of the fifty, and slid out.

He had to be careful. Looking over the gray bulk of building, Frank walked to the nearest corner — First Avenue — to study the surroundings, looking for hiding spots, contact points, anything he could possibly use. Clothing stores, a camera shop, apartment buildings, a deli on the opposite corner. Lots of trees. The stink of East River, smog, and grilled hot dogs, brats, and onions from a nearby cart.

The asylum itself was an old Victorian hulk: gray stone, turrets, decorative iron spikes topping the surrounding old stone walls. Two wings stretched out from the central hub, with four…no, five floors, possibly six, but parts of the garret looked deserted, from what Frank could see from the sidewalk. Typical Kirkbride building, from the outside, anyway. Bars across all the upper windows.

Frank was stalling; he knew it. He had to know — no, admit it, he was _scared_ to know. Hammond was top-level FBI. He and Abrams had no reason to be at an insane asylum — that Frank knew about, anyway. With this so-called important defection looming, they couldn't be worrying about other cases. And why _both?_ Abrams wasn't FBI. Frank didn't know what branch Abrams was with, but the defection couldn't have anything to do with an insane asylum…

So why _here?_

But...Hammond and his attempts to get into the Center, to recruit Frank and Joe, all the stories the other Blades had told him and Joe, especially Joshua's warnings…and Frank's breath hissed in, as the pieces fell into a possible pattern.

CIA. Black Ops.

A mental hospital, insane asylum, loony bin — where no one would believe an inmate claiming he didn't belong there, where screams and cries for help would be ignored as just another lunatic. Where someone could be stashed out of circulation indefinitely…until no longer needed.

His hands pressed up against the stone, jaw clenched, Frank glared at that cold, gray building. Joe must have proven too hard to crack, so they killed him, rather than let him go and then face uncomfortable explanations to a loyal, valued operative. And now they were coming back to clean up any loose ends.

If the government was involved, if the CIA was behind Joe's death — Frank could all-too-easily disappear, too, and Dad would be identifying another burned body. No, Frank had to let Dad know where he was and what he was doing. Simple, basic security precaution.

Frank shoved away from the stone wall and headed towards the deli as most likely to have a public phone. But then his steps slowed. Hammond was Dad's friend. Suddenly all of Dad's begging for Joe to give up detective work didn't seem so innocent, especially since that last fight had provoked Joe into storming out…and never returning.

What if Dad was _involved…?_

… _I didn't want it to be this way…I know…_

 _What_ had Dad known?

Maybe nothing. Maybe something innocent. Or…not. Paranoia — that useful survival trait pounded into him by painful experience — screamed in his gut, but right now, Frank wanted to give it all up, go back to being a naive five-year-old and be able to go to Dad about _anything…_ but…but…

No. Frank couldn't take the chance.

He was all alone, then. He knew no one here, except Nancy, and she wasn't in town. No one to trust, no one to help, no backup, nowhere to go if — _when_ — he found out the truth…

Joe's voice was a memory in Frank's ear: _you're supposed to be the level-headed one. You are the…_

"…oldest, I know," Frank murmured, running a hand through his hair. Wonderful thing, brains. Maybe if he actually _used_ his…

The Association had a Center out here, and both Frank and Joe were Blades.

Well, Joe had been a Blade, anyway.

Frank jogged across the street and stood for a moment just inside the deli's door, getting his bearings. Typical deli: counter stacked with sliced meats that Frank had no names for (beyond "baloney and ham"), cheeses that he had even less names for, and various slaws, salads, and other stuff that could only have been invented by accidents involving the meat slicer.

Great. Now he was channeling Joe. That had to be the first sign of insanity. But, there. Pay phone, back wall.

Score for the level-headed one.

Frank wedged himself into the corner so he could keep an eye on the front of the deli and the window as he dialed the number with shaking fingers. He did not want Hammond or Abrams coming in for a lunch break, not here, not now.

One ring, two, three…and it picked up. "Josh here."

"Thank God." Frank sagged in relief at a friendly voice, someone he _knew_ wasn't involved in whatever was going on. "Thank _God."_

"Frank?" Joshua's voice went from casual to sitting-bolt-upright-concerned in that one syllable. "Are you all right, _ché?_ What's happened?"

Calm. Stay calm. "I'm on a payphone. I don't have much time."

"Call right back, then. Reverse charges. Need anyone else in on the call?"

"Mar. Tag. I don't know who else. Maybe Jamie." Frank cut himself off; he was babbling.

"Are you in a safe spot?"

Frank glanced around the deli: no Hammond or Abrams. "So far."

"Give me five minutes, then, _ché._ Can you hang on that long?"

"Yeah. Five minutes." Frank hung up, then sank into the nearest booth. Best get a soda so the clerks wouldn't have an excuse to throw him out.

Three minutes, then five — Frank wedged himself back in the corner with the ginger ale on the phonebook ledge, got the operator and called back collect.

It picked up on the first ring, with Joshua accepting charges, then a click. "Okay, _ché._ I've got you on speaker. Mar and Hawk are both here, Jamie's on the way. What's going on?"

Get the worst out of the way, before Frank broke down right there. "Joe's dead."

" _What?"_ Kris burst out.

"I don't know. _I don't know._ " Frank ran his hand through his hair again, watching the front and studying each person in the deli. Were they feds? Hammond's people on a lunch break? Was he being listened to? None of them looked like they cared about the guy on the phone. "I mean, they killed him. But Hammond dropped something, and now I'm not sure what's going on. I followed him and —"

"Frank, dear," Mar overrode him, _"breathe_. You're not making sense. Take it slow. Start from the beginning."

Closing his eyes, Frank took a deep breath, then another. He had to hold together. He could hear Kris's muffled voice in the background — choking off as if fighting not to cry — Mar murmuring in response, the sound of a door opening and shutting, then Jamie's "What's going on?"

"Frank? You still there?" Joshua said.

"I'm here." He had to calm down, he…

" _Spit it out, Blade._ Stop freaking and start _thinking."_

The verbal slap shook Frank out of his panic. With another deep breath, he started from the top, as quiet as he could and still be audible. He couldn't turn away; he had to keep an eye on the deli. But he took it slow, calm and clinical, as if it'd happened to someone else. That last argument, Joe cutting out…the body…everything, right down to Frank following Hammond and Abrams, and now…

Frank's hands clenched on the phone. Silence on the other end again, save for gulping whimpers in the background — Kris, Jamie, Frank couldn't tell. Dear God, why had he asked for Jamie to be there? She wasn't a Blade. Tag was bad enough, but he'd only freaked Jamie out.

"You're going to hate me for this, _ché_ ," Joshua said. "But what do you want us do?"

Hadn't Joshua understood? "Josh, _Joe's dead."_

"I heard you, _ché."_ Quiet, sympathetic. _"_ But what do you want from us? Somehow I don't think you're calling to invite us to the funeral."

That pulled Frank up short, the word a sharp punch to the gut.

 _Funeral…_

" _Ché — what do you want?"_

Grief, panic, rage — all solidified into one hard, cold word. "Revenge."

Silence.

"I'm going to find out who. And _why._ " His jaw clenched, voice shaking. " _I want to make them pay."_

The silence stretched out.

"No, _ché,_ you will not, _"_ Joshua said finally, quietly. "We don't do revenge. Ever."

"But — Joe's — they _killed —"_

"Eye for an eye leaves everyone blind, _ché._ We've said that to you often enough. You've got brains. Use them."

"But —"

"Let's say you find out who. Let's say you _make them pay._ And then what happens? Someone else will investigate. Someone else will find out that you _made them pay_ and then they will make _you_ pay…and it will keep going, back and forth, on and on. Is that what you want, _ché_?"

" _Josh, you're not listening!"_

"I am listening." Joshua's voice choked off; there was muffled noise, then the line cleared. "Believe me, Frank, we've heard every word you've —"

"Big brother," Kris broke in, " — no, Josh, shut up — Frank, listen, please, please listen to me…"

Oh God. Hearing their little tagalong choking back her own tears, her voice cracking…

"…are you sure Joe's dead?"

" _Kris, don't you dare pull the spooky stuff right now!"_

" _Frank, I'm serious!"_

Clamping his jaw around everything he wanted to yell at her — what was she trying to _pull?_ What part of all that hadn't she understood? — Frank squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep control, to…to…

"Listen to her, Frank." Jamie's whisper, scared and small-sounding. "Please listen."

"Big brother, you know — I mean — I'd know if you or Joe…if you died. I would." Kris's voice trembled, broke. "It's that connection thing because you're my big brothers and all that. I'd _know."_

" _How_ would you know, Tag? We haven't died before — you can't know what it feels like!"

"Then listen to _me,"_ Jamie broke in. "Because I do know what it feels like when someone close to me dies, Frank, and there's been nothing like that with…with Joe. And me and my Fluffy Minion _are_ that close and even closer and if I have to spell it out any more for you —"

"Jamie, I really don't need the Evil Overlord crap, either," Frank ground out from clenched teeth. "If you and Tag think —"

" _Children,"_ Mar overrode all of them.

Silence.

Head bowed against the payphone plastic, clenching the handset so hard his hand shook, Frank choked back his anger. He had to stay calm. Too many people here, a public deli, and people at the nearby tables were now watching him covertly. He did not need Tagalong and Jamie combining their weirdness — he wanted to believe them, dear God, he so badly wanted to believe them, but…

"My son, I know you're upset," Mar said, calm, soothing. "But my little squirrel and Jamie have a very valid point — what proof do you have?"

" _Mar, I saw Joe's body!"_

"No, dear. You saw _a_ body."

Frank opened his mouth…

…wait…

A body. Badly burned, face unrecognizable…wearing Joe's clothes and that ring…

…but clothes and jewelry were easily removable…

…and burning was a common tactic for murderers to prevent ID.

"Well?" Mar said patiently. "Did they show you an autopsy report? Did they ask for dental records or medical records or anything like that?"

Eyes closed, Frank rubbed at his forehead, forcing himself to think. Why _hadn't_ they used dental records? That was standard procedure, especially in a big city like New York.

Not to mention Joe had very distinct injuries, courtesy of that sociopath in New Orleans — well, and Frank shooting him last June, but that didn't count. Any autopsy should've turned all that up and checked them against existing records to rule out possible causes of death…and confirm ID.

So why subject Frank and Dad to that horror?

"Frank?"

Because someone _wanted_ the body to be seen…and believed.

"Big brother…?"

"I'm still here." And why had Hammond and Abrams gone to that insane asylum? Frank had wondered that outside. They had no reason to be there…

"You haven't answered my question, my son," Mar said.

 _What proof do you have?_

Frank blew out a long, exhausted breath. "None."

Everyone started talking at once, but then the connection and voices suddenly went muffled, as if someone had laid a hand over the speaker. Frank thought he could make out Joshua's tone — that commanding cadence of _stop-babbling-people_. Then the sound cleared again.

"All right, Blade. Then I'm going to ask again." Joshua's drill-sergeant voice, edged with steel. "What do you want?"

Deep breath, then another. Steady. "The truth," Frank whispered.

"And after?"

"It…depends on what I find." Breathe. He had to breathe. "If…if Joe's alive…I can't leave him, Josh. And I can't take the chance he's not."

"Now that's the Blade I thought I trained." Joshua's voice warmed. "So you need backup."

" _Please."_ Frank's voice cracked; he stopped, hating himself. He was a _Blade._ Blades protected the Gifted from other Gifted and from the feds. He'd been trained. He had to deal with this.

"My son, you're not alone," Mar said. "We've got folks in NYC. You remember Tom Walker?"

If…if Joe was alive…they'd both been in worse situations. Frank took another deep breath, then another, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was calmer. "I thought he lived in Circle Hills."

"He does," Mar said. "But believe me, you and your brother already have a rep in NYC because of Tom and all that."

"He called you and Joe an act of God of Biblical proportions, big brother." Kris's voice wobbled, and somehow, that made Frank feel a little better — she wasn't taking this any better than he was. "Like the Apocalypse, but tons worse."

"Thanks, Tag," Frank said quietly. "Yeah, I need backup, Josh. I don't know if I can trust Dad and I don't know the city."

"I hear you, _ché_. Where are you at?"

"A deli across the street. Sammy's."

"Hawk, hand me that clipboard — hold on, _ché_ , I'm getting numbers for you. Give me your info — what's the number there? The address?"

A hand-lettered sign with the deli's address was taped to the wall near the phone. Frank relayed the information and the number of the payphone.

"Let me call Bronx Center to give 'em a heads-up so they're expecting you," Joshua said, "and I'll call back. Do not move until you hear from me. That's an order, Blade. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Frank said.

"That _sir_ better have had a salute attached," there was a hint of a smile in Joshua's voice, "or you're going to be on permanent latrine duty, soldier."

"There's no latrines out here."

"I'll find some, _ché,_ trust me."

"Big brother," Kris broke in, "remember — you and Joe took Thatcher down, _twice_. You saved Nancy. You took down the _Sidhe_ , for gods' sakes. _You're not helpless."_

Trust Kris to put it like that. "Okay, Tag. I hear you."

"My money's on my big brothers who blew up Fairy-land with peanut butter and a bowl of pee. The feds won't know what hit 'em."

The words were so unreal, so nonsensical…Frank collapsed back against the wall, struggling to keep his laughter under control before it broke into sheer hysterics.

"And you'd better bring my Evil Minion back," Jamie said. "Or a certain painting will get overnighted to a certain part-time investigator."

" _Jamie!"_

"I'll add my own bit to that, _ché,"_ Joshua said. "If Joe's alive, I doubt he's sitting idle, so we'll be watching for the mushroom cloud. Now get yourself a sandwich and shake down while I get things set up with Bronx. And you and your brother are under orders to tell me this peanut butter tale when you get back, or you're going to be buying me pizza until you're a grandfather. Deal?"

"Ask Tag, because I have no clue what she's talking about." With that, Frank hung up.

Now, the hard part: waiting.

Frank had heard the stories from the other Blades. He'd been following the news stories coming out about the CIA's _MKUltra_. Drugs, torture, child abuse, mind-control — Frank's brain wouldn't let it rest. If Frank had figured it out, Dad would — assuming Dad wasn't part of the whole thing, anyway. But either way, Hammond couldn't take the chance of Dad staying on the feds' side. The CIA and Black Ops: _paranoia_ was too soft a term.

If Joe was alive, he would be moved. And Frank would lose his best chance.

 _If_ Joe was alive. _If._

It felt like an eternity by the time the payphone rang. Frank snatched it up. "Frank here."

"Hey, _boyo,"_ Tom Walker said. "Bringing the Apocalypse down on our heads again?"

That had been too much to hope for. Tom had helped Frank and Joe with the Circle Hills and Stacey Blaine thing years ago, before they'd even known about the Association. "Tom. Thank God. Oh, thank God."

"Josh gave me the précis. We've got space for you here, never doubt it. We're in the Bronx, though, so it'll take me twenty or so to get there."

The way Manhattan traffic was? Forty minutes, at least. Frank couldn't wait that long…and he didn't want to drag anyone else in, if things went sour. "I'll be here, with Joe." With. _With._ Hope was a potent drug. "I'm going in."

"Frank." That casual voice sharpened, stopping Frank before he could hang up. "Be sure. Be very sure. You can't afford a mistake."

"I'm not sure at all." At least he was honest with himself that much. "But…I'm asking the question. I have to know, Tom."

Quieter. "Josh said you're not sure of your dad."

"I don't know. _I don't know."_

"Easy, _boyo._ Panic'll get you killed faster than you can say _Muppet._ "

The sudden mental-image of Gonzo as a CIA agent made Frank choke with sudden laughter. "I know. You've got the address."

Tom repeated it back, waited for Frank's confirmation, then, "One other thing, _boyo._ We've got a mole at Harbor — we knew they'd caught someone new, but not who. So you _might_ have help. But don't count on it, and don't try to make contact. Understood?"

"Understood." Frank's breathing came easier. Just knowing there was someone on his side in all this helped.

"Be aware of your choice, Blade. Be very, very aware."

The unspoken, the last half of that: _…and beware refusing it._ Refusing it meant Joe would…could…no. _No._ "I'm not, but I'm making it anyway. Wait for me here. An hour, at most." With that, Frank hung up.

Time to find out how much his training was really worth.


	9. Escape

_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Paulina Ann, Wendylouwho10 & Leyapearl for the comments & reviews! (Folks - at this point, just toss everything you remember/know about the original episode out the window. Really. ;))  
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Heart pounding, light-headed, Joe couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Dad couldn't…he _wouldn't_ …

Leta had come up beside him; she touched his shoulder. "Is everything all right?"

"I…I just need to walk a bit." His side itched again. Jamie. The tattoo. _This had to be a con._

But why? For _what?_ No Communist agent worth his salt would bother with all this. Joe would be in some dark basement getting the crap beat out of him, if that was what was going on.

He kept coming back to that. Vague memory — the Sherlock Holmes stories he and Frank loved: _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth._

Joe rubbed at his forehead, trying to clear the drug fog, trying to _think._ Communist agents, impossible. Fine, so stop babbling on that, brain. Impossible eliminated. So that now left…

No. _No._

The tattoo was there, itchy and real. Which meant Joe hadn't been here six months, so Frank had to be alive. _He had to be._

But Dad had just…

God, god, _god._

Using the IV pole for balance, Joe got to his feet, staggered towards the TV. The men were watching a Yankees' game; Reggie Jackson had just stepped up to the plate — the date on the screen matched what Leta had said. That much was real, at least.

"'Bout time you got back, Joe." One of the younger men grinned over at him: short, dark-haired, with burn scars on his face. "We were starting to think the docs tossed you out."

That got laughter from the others. But Joe's attention was caught by the transparent figures near the wall. Scraggly, greasy-haired, their clothes threadbare, they were bony and thin, faces and arms covered in open sores with their eyes dark shadowed hollows…and they stared at Joe.

… _figures moved at the edges of the circle, hollow eyes obscured in deep wells of shadow…_

Shivering, Joe looked away. There were magazines on the nearby coffee table. Dog-eared, ripped, all of them several months old…including a _Time_ from April.

"Ignoring us today?" The dark-haired man still grinned at Joe. "Think you're too good for us now?"

"Ease up," one of the others said. "You know the shocks mess him up."

That caught Joe's attention. "Shocks?"

The second man gave him a pitying look, then turned back to the TV. "Don't worry 'bout it, man. You never remember."

They were talking like they knew him. Like he'd been here a while…

Leta was still watching him. Confused, disturbed, Joe focused back on the magazines, but took a moment to concentrate on his shields; now would be a bad time for them to waver. The _Time_ was under several other magazines; Joe eased down to an empty chair and tugged the magazineout. April 3rd, 1978, John Travolta on the cover, secondary story the Israel-Egypt business.

Dad subscribed to _Time_ , along with all the other news magazines. Joe _knew_ this issue, the only news about New Orleans he'd allowed himself to read. He'd obsessed over it, trying to match faces with what he'd hallucinated as he'd lain delirious and near-death in that warehouse.

…" _There's still people here." Silent, beckoning, the shadows gathered around him, and Joe struggled against the hands holding him down. "They're right there…"_

Table of contents — torn and stained with god-knew-what — third story down: _ID'ing the New Orleans Victims._

Joe's hands trembled. The magazine had been under the others, everything from _People_ to _Rolling Stone_ to _Reader's Digest,_ all various dates, years. All of them, even this _Time,_ ripped, stained, and dog-eared. They had no way of knowing he'd find it, or even see it. The New Orleans article wasn't even listed on the cover. Here, then — the truth, and they couldn't hide it.

He paged to the article. The lead two-page picture was the ruined warehouse, the recovery crews bringing out the body bags. All the names, all those young faces from school yearbooks, tourist photos, family photos, Black, white, smiling and happy, paragraphs bio'ing each victim, their family. Joe glanced over the article — just as he remembered — and felt his breathing relax.

Then he turned the page. Top of page 49, right where _Sophie Lemoine, age 14_ should've been…but the fuzzy black-and-white photo of a Black girl in cornrow braids and thick glasses wasn't there.

Frank's senior yearbook photo smiled up at him.

 _Frank Hardy, age 19. Son of renowned detective Fenton Hardy. 1958-1978._

Joe's breathing came short and fast, his face felt numb, his heart pounded, he felt dizzy and light-headed. Frank couldn't be… _he wasn't…_

… _Frank's accusing, lifeless gaze…_

"Are you all right?" Leta had come up next to him.

All of it…all of this…was too…too…real. Real hospital, real nurses, real patients… _real._ Doctors, nurses — they wouldn't con their patients. There was no point.

Joe touched Frank's picture. His brother, his best friend, reduced to a cold two-line epitaph on a glossy page of _Time._ Everything his brother had done, everything they'd solved and accomplished and laughed over together,his brother who'd coaxed and cajoled and shoved Joe when he'd needed it in the wake of New Orleans, who'd been there, helping and bracing and…and… _living…_

Bent over, arms crossed tight around himself, eyes squeezed shut, Joe choked the tears back. He didn't want to break down. Not here. Not in a room full of…of…

His side and back were itching again. Joe rubbed at the scabs through the thin gown, the faint pulse of _magic_. The _recent_ scabs. The tattoo, the bright, fiery phoenix that he could not have gotten while here in this hospital, not if he'd been here six months.

 _Jamie._

Frank couldn't be dead. _He couldn't be._ But either this whole hospital and doctors and nurses and letters and his clothes and…and… _everything…_ were lying or that itchy, scabbed tattoo was a lie. _It didn't make sense!_

 _When you've eliminated the impossible…_

Joe's gaze fell on the old man still mumbling to his transparent companion.

… _OSS. CIA. EPA. FCC…_

… _someone of your Gifts, with your daddy…the feds will take you by any means necessary…_ who had said that? The voice was a hazy memory washed out in the fog of drugs.

Leta touched his shoulder. "Joseph?"

Gently Joe closed the magazine, but held onto it. He didn't know what to think or what to believe. But now wasn't the time for paranoid confrontations and dramatic gestures. That was for stupid TV heroes. He had to find out the truth, and he wouldn't get it in a mental ward where they were drugging him and watching his every move.

Pathetic, lost puppy-dog: now was the time to play that up. "Please. Can I…I mean…can I just go back to my room?" Just the right tone, a tired, scared boy trying not to cry…

Which he was.

… _Frank, please…please, brother…you can't be dead…_

"Of course." Leta helped him up and to limp back to his room.

Joe paid attention, noting everything: the monitors in the nurses station, where the janitors' closets were, the laundry, the doors — and the security keypad next to them. Once in the room, Leta started to guide him towards the bed, but, shaking his head, Joe laid the magazine on the desk, then staggered to the armchair by the window and collapsed into it, his head thrown back, eyes shut. Now he let the tears leak out, everything he'd been holding back since waking up last night.

"Would you like to talk about it?" A soft, comforting touch on his shoulder, a wordless _I'm here._

He hadn't intended to speak, but the grief, the confusion, the anger, all made it out anyway. "What happened?"

There was a pause. Leta glanced towards the magazine.

"Not…I mean…my…my father. What happened? Why did he…I mean…if Frank is…Dad wouldn't… _why?_ " Joe's voice choked off.

"I told you." Leta's tone matched Mar's, the same calm, soothing rhythm that never broke. "He and your aunt didn't feel safe —"

"You said my father couldn't handle knowing _why I survived._ What'd you mean by that?"

"What do you remember?"

"I don't _remember_ anything! You people keep telling me all this stuff that didn't happen and when I try to say anything —"

"Calm down." Leta gently pushed him back into the armchair.

Eyes closed, Joe breathed through the panic and grief. "Please. _I have to know."_

The silence lengthened.

"I only know what little you've said." Quiet, resigned. "That you were in New Orleans. You and your brother."

Oh…God. Joe swallowed, and swallowed again.

…" _So, tell me, my boy. Who gets to die first?"…_

That hadn't happened. It hadn't happened like that!

"It did," Leta said quietly, and Joe startled — he'd said it out loud. "The killer…made you choose."

He hadn't told her any of this. He hadn't told anyone of his nightmares, not even…not even…the counselor at Bay Area…

… _I'm sorry, there's no such listing in the directory._ …

"I didn't," Joe whispered. "I _didn't._ _I'd never let Frank die_."

"No, you didn't." Gentle, sympathetic sorrow. "But the killer did…when you wouldn't."

The nightmare hung in front of Joe's eyes — Frank bound, terrified, eyes pleading…then his lifeless, accusing gaze…

Joe's back and side were itching again. The tattoo. The bright, damning tattoo…versus a whole hospital…Dad…Aunt Gertrude…and an old dog-eared news magazine…

Eyes squeezed shut, Joe curled on his side in the chair, arms wrapped around himself…and broke. Shoulders shaking, gulping air, choking on his tears, he couldn't hold it back anymore, all the misery, fear, grief, anger, everything…

Another touch on his shoulder; he shook it off.

"Would you like to be alone?"

Not opening his eyes, Joe nodded.

Leta hesitated, her voice now by the door. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

Taking deep, deliberate breaths, Joe waited until he heard the door shut. Then, just as deliberately, teeth clenched, he undid the tape and pulled the IV out of his arm.

He had to get out, outside the hospital, some neutral territory, a payphone, a news stand, anything. He had to find out the truth.

But what if Dad was in on all this?

Or worse…

Sagged back in the chair, hand clamped on his arm to stop the bleeding, Joe forced himself to breathe deep, slow, even. The voice on the phone had sounded exactly like Dad…but…if this was the CIA or something like that…

And Dad had CIA connections.

Worry about that later.

Wiping at his face, Joe pushed to his feet and staggered over to the drawers. T-shirt, sneakers: his fingers felt clumsy and stiff, fumbling with the laces. He pulled on the hospital gown back over his clothes, the robe over top of that, then moved the roll-clamp down on the main IV line to stop the fluid before tucking the line under the robe. If he took the pole with him, he could use it for balance and they would think he still had the line in his arm.

Shadows flickered at the corner of his vision again.

 _They threw you away, too._

Joe stared down at the open drawers. It was either the drugs…or another ghost…or maybe someone else they were using, someone with a Gift like Kris's. But Joe just couldn't ignore that small, sad whisper.

"Yeah, they did," Joe whispered, breathing through the tension and fear. He closed his eyes, his grip on the wood of the drawers so tight, his hands ached. "But I'm getting out of here. I'd take you with me, if I knew how."

Was it his imagination, or had a faint gasp answered that?

No matter. Now the hard part — he could walk without a crutch, but not well, even with the IV pole. Running was out. At this point, he wasn't sure his shields would hold against someone trying to brute-force them down, and he definitely wasn't sure about his control over his Gift, not until the heroin finally wore off. Still…

And Joe was talking to hallucinations and believing a crazy old man in a mental ward. Frank would never let Joe live this one down.

For a moment, grief overwhelmed him. "Frank…if you're…" Joe's voice choked off; he swallowed, tried again. "If you're here, I could use some help."

Then Joe froze. Something had touched his hand: a faint chill against his skin. Oh, God… _no…_

 _Who's Frank?_

"My brother," Joe said, voice shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shadows again. "They say he's dead. But I think they're lying. To…to trick me."

 _I ran away, too._

"Did you make it?"

No answer.

It didn't matter. He was stalling. One way or another, he had to find out the truth.

 _Brother._ A different whisper, behind him. _You have brother?_

Even his hallucinations were trying to stall him. Nodding, Joe paused at the door, concentrating hard. The mouse-trick, that tiny magic that Tagalong had taught him: not invisibility, but a simple _nothing-important-here_ , encouraging people to just not pay attention.

That memory was clear enough: Kris and her spooky stuff…

Unless his drugged-up, fugued-out brain had made Tag up, too.

… _no such address in the directory…_

Even that small bit of magic left him breathing hard and graying out, his shields wavering under the strain of the drugs and trying to keep up two things at once. Dear God, what else had they used with the heroin? Or was this what heroin always did?

Then again, he hadn't eaten anything today, and as far as he knew, they hadn't fed him while he'd been here. No wonder he was running thin.

That was another mind-control trick: mess with the diet. If these people were with the CIA…

Focus, _focus._

Joe staggered out his door and stood a moment in the hall. Making a direct line for the ward door would get noticed, but if he acted like he was just taking a walk…

Joe frowned: he could see a faint glow around the ward door and the security pad. Something magic, likely warded against interference. It'd make sense, if they were holding Gifted up here. Somehow Joe didn't think they'd set all this up just for him.

"Here, now, where do you think you're going?"

So much for the mouse trick: one of the nurses had come up, an old Asian woman with a face like tree-bark. Time to play up the lost, pathetic puppy again. "I want to see the Statue of Liberty." Joe nodded towards the rooms across the ward, glancing around at the same time — he didn't see Leta. "Or the Empire State Building. I don't want to bother anyone. If there's an empty room I could look from…"

"You can't see Liberty from here." Frowning, the nurse looked Joe over.

Bowing his head, Joe sagged against the IV pole, stumbled a little as if having trouble balancing.

The nurse nodded. "I don't know about Empire State. World Trade Center, definitely. That's a sight. Come on."

The nurse took Joe's free arm — despite her stature, she supported him easily. Joe was careful to move slow, each step uncertain and leaning against the nurse more than he really needed to. She helped him to an empty room on the other side of the corridor…

The room right next to the hall doors.

"Here you go. Johnny's no longer here, so take as long as you want." The nurse sighed, then tapped the wall above the call button. "Call when you're ready to leave, and I'll help."

Leaning against the wall near the window, Joe waited until the nurses's footsteps faded. Now what? If they were watching…

Well, moving fast was out. That left sneaky. Joe took both the robe and hospital gown off. In his street clothes, it'd probably take a second or two for it to register that he was a patient. First problem, though: walking. He needed to make it to whatever elevators or stairs this building had, then from there to the outside doors. He'd have to take the pole. It couldn't be helped.

Second problem: getting past the ward doors.

Joe pulled the IV bags off the pole, shoved them into one of the drawers…and stopped. The drawer held clothes, personal items, crayons, a small sketchbook. The other patient had left his things behind?

With a nervous glance at the door, Joe picked up the sketchbook and leafed through it. Angry red and black drawings of people with sores, bald, shabby, their eyes shadowed hollows…

One drawing caught his eye: a child, a sad-eyed girl in a long bed-gown, matted red hair hiding her face. Another figure crouched behind her, peeping out from behind the first's gown. After that, though…the last few pages were nothing but nonsense doodles, a mess of stick figures and scribbled lines like a child would draw, but still that angry red and black.

… _Johnny the bonny, brains all mush and milk…_

Joe gently tucked the sketchbook back into the drawer. His heart was pounding, his breathing fast; adrenaline was clearing out some of the effects of the drugs. Enough delay. He'd been in this room long enough: there'd be a short window between the staff relaxing their attention because he wasn't causing trouble and before they came looking for him.

With a deep breath, hand clenched around the IV pole, Joe edged up to the room's door, halting just before the door jamb and leaning against the wall so that he could study the hall doors and the security keypad. He couldn't see any cameras above them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Let them get bored watching for him on the monitors. It wasn't like he was in a hurry.

Well, one thing about being heavily drugged: it made mage-Sight a lot easier. Deep breath, settle, relax his eyes…

Hinges on the other side: the doors would swing outwards, then. Electromagnetic lock with a security keypad…and the keypad was heavily warded. With a frustrated sigh, Joe sagged against the wall, staring at the lock, the doors, the walls…then straightened in shock.

It couldn't be _that_ simple…

Such locks had failsafes. In case of fire, in case the power failed, the lock released to let people get out of the burning building. Joe stared at the keypad and wall, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The electrical system wasn't warded at all.

He could see the tracings of the electrical energy in the walls, the wires and conduits. Nothing protected any of that. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

At that moment, from somewhere back towards the nurses' station, a loud, angry argument erupted — someone was being dressed down, at the top of both sets of lungs.

Now or never, then: hopefully everyone would be too distracted to notice what Joe was doing. Biting back a grin, he traced out the electricity's path, found the flows leading to the lock and the keypad…and focused hard, wrapping his magic around those wires with a vicious _yank._

Sparks, then a quiet _chunk_. Time to move.

Gulping air and staggering from the surge of dizziness the magic had caused, Joe shoved the doors open, but then forced himself to slow down. Walk normal. Running would be noticed, and he'd get caught — he was now in some sort of waiting area between the wings, filled with carpet, plants, and armchairs, a receptionist's desk. After a glance at the various directional signs, Joe turned towards the elevators…

…and pulled up short as two men in suits stepped out of the elevators and stopped at the sight of Joe.

Harry Hammond, and Dad's U.N. contact, Peter Abrams.


	10. Taken

_A/N: muahahahahaah. Thanks to Barb, MoonlightGypsy, Caranath, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, & Bgeesfan for the reviews, favorites, & follows!  
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Both Hammond and Abrams halted.

Joe grabbed up the IV pole — that heavy, steel _club —_ and swung. It walloped Abrams across his mid-section, clipped Hammond, and both men went down. Others in the waiting area reacted, shouting, running towards Joe —

He flung the pole at them and dove into the elevator just as the doors closed, slamming his hand against the button for ground-floor. Get down fast. He had a minute or so — maybe less — before the alarms started — he could be in the lobby and out the front door. He just needed a precious few seconds and a small bit of luck.

Something brushed against his shields.

Don't panic. Don't _look_ panicked. He had to act calm, normal, un-rushed. Panic would get him caught.

Creaky and slow, the elevator stopped the next floor down, opened for an elderly couple to get on. The old woman smiled at him, but otherwise the couple ignored him; they were in the everyday, normal clothes of visitors, a shapeless polyester dress with a necklace of fake pearls for the woman, a baggy seersucker suit for the old man. The elevator stopped at each of the floors on the way down, more visitors in typical _visit-the-hospital_ clothes, a woman in scrubs who didn't give anyone in the elevator more than a cursory glance.

The _something_ brushed against his shields again, and for a moment, Joe panicked: he was the tasty little fish hiding in the seaweed as a shark slowly swam overhead…

He held himself still. He didn't need to freak out innocent bystanders or catch them in the line of fire, and using magic would announce his location to the unseen searcher. It was a sure bet that person wasn't on Joe's side.

Hammond and Abrams. Well, that was proof this place wasn't a Communist set-up, then. But why were those two here? Somehow Joe didn't think Hammond would be visiting a cracked-up psychotic teenager, and Abrams's duties to the U.N. wouldn't include visits to nuthouses. If Abrams _was_ with the U.N., anyway — assuming Joe's memory was right, and right now, Joe wasn't sure of anything other than _get out._

If both men were CIA, though…

Paranoia: such a wonderful thing. Like Joe really needed more reasons to panic right now.

Finally, finally, ground floor…just as a voice started announcing over the loudspeakers, _"Code Blue. All staff. Code Blue."_

That didn't sound good.

Three guesses who that was for. Surprising that it'd taken them this long. Well, Joe wasn't about to argue.

He stayed behind a family heading for the main lobby and who were hampered by a stroller and a whiny toddler. Staying near enough to look like part of their group without panicking them, Joe rounded the corner, passed the gift-shop entrance, but then pulled up short.

Across the spacious, plant-filled lobby, four alert security guards stood right by the outside doors, watching all the people entering and exiting the building.

Joe backed up into the gift shop and behind a display of stuffed toys. Don't panic. _Don't panic._

Hiding in the gift shop: out. The clerks would notice that he'd been here a while without buying anything, and his stance marked him as someone with mobility issues. Big giveaway, right there. In this enclosed space, there was too much chance of innocent people getting hurt. If hospital staff got involved, no one would listen to Joe's pleas for help. He was a mental patient in a psych ward; reality didn't enter the picture, as far as most people were concerned.

Stay calm. Stay _calm._

Through the gift-shop windows, Joe noticed a small bagel cart out in the lobby, complete with plastic tables and chairs. He studied it, thinking. The guards would be looking for someone trying to leave, not someone sitting and relaxing, especially since he was in street clothes, not a hospital gown. Moving slow, trying to minimize his limp as best he could, Joe eased through the gift shop to its side entryway, trying to keep people between him and those security guards.

Joe made it to the cart area just as a man in a green polyester suit got up from the nearest table, leaving a coffee cup behind. Joe sank down in the vacated chair with relief and pulled the paper cup closer. Sit here, blend in. Try to relax and wait out the drug effects; his head was already clearer just from walking. Try to ignore hunger and the aroma of toasted bagels and coffee. If Joe waited long enough, they might think he'd escaped the building; the immediate guard would be relaxed when the search expanded to the city, and then Joe could get out into the wilds of Manhattan.

One solitary teenager, somewhere in the huge expanse of New York City. His chances would be a lot better than in the enclosed walls of a locked-down psych ward.

But right now, it was one solitary teenager versus the CIA, in a possible CIA facility. _If_ that was what was going on. _If_ he wasn't really a mental case, _if_ he wasn't really delusional and Dad hadn't…and Frank wasn't really…wasn't…

Swallowing sudden tears, Joe slumped forward, letting his head rest in his arms. Right now, between exhaustion, hunger, and the drugs, just keeping his shields up was an effort. The mouse-trick had failed. He might be able to manage some type of illusion or even try the mouse-trick again…if he dropped his shields so he wasn't trying to keep up two things at once.

Drop his shields, here. No way. They knew he was Gifted. He'd felt the searcher. Leta had said they had ways of dealing with Gifted, so they had to have Gifted on their payroll — no, they _definitely_ did, if Hammond was involved.

Joe wasn't about to tempt fate that far.

He let his eyes relax, looked over the security guards, and stifled a groan. All had the faint glow of shields, and he didn't dare test them to see if those shields were theirs or pre-sets. He'd be announcing himself with a flashing _Good Eats Here_ sign.

But over near the front windows was a small stand of public pay phones, with cushioned benches nearby. They couldn't be monitoring those phones. No reason to. If he could get to those and call out — back to the hotel, Bay Area, Bayport, somebody, _anybody_ …

… _Frank…_

Hands clenched, Joe choked back the sob, forcing himself to breath slow and deep. Not here. He was exhausted, drugged, light-headed, dizzy. He hadn't eaten at all today. But he watched those guards, the door, the lobby, even as he struggled to keep his shields up. It all was a set-up. It had to be. Dad wouldn't abandon him…Frank couldn't be dead…he _could not be…_

But that _Time_ article, and that cold, damning epitaph…

The chair next to him pulled out; someone sat down.

Hammond.

"Take it easy, Joe," Hammond said, as Joe started to shove back and away. "I just want to talk."

Joe looked up, past Hammond and around the lobby. At least two others in suits…a trio of men in scrubs sitting by the phones…along with a family with a baby, an elderly man talking to another old man in a hospital gown, a bony, bald woman in a wheelchair laughing with her family.

Hammond hadn't moved, save to light a cigarette.

Joe swallowed, and swallowed again. He was waiting for the attack, for someone to grab him, to slap a straitjacket on him and drug him out of his mind and…and…

The bagel-cart guy came over and set down a tray in front of Hammond: three toasted bagels, sealed containers of cream cheese, honey, butter, a bottle of orange juice. Hammond pushed the tray in front of Joe.

"Eat. You look like you're ready to drop."

Good cop, bad cop. Oh, Joe _knew_ how this game was played. But…the food had come straight from the cart, so it couldn't be drugged. The orange juice bottle was still sealed. He was starved; they hadn't fed him upstairs. Finally, hesitantly, Joe chose one of the bagels, peeled open a cream cheese.

"May I?" Hammond picked up one of the remaining bagels and spread it with butter before taking a bite.

Clear, reassuring message: food not drugged. Joe didn't care beyond that. He nibbled at the bagel, then bit in, suddenly ravenous.

Hammond said nothing, eating his own bagel between drags on his cigarette. He pushed the remaining bagel in front of Joe as Joe finished the first, as well as the bottle of juice.

"You're intelligent," Hammond said, still quiet, still calm, as Joe devoured the second bagel. "I tried telling your father that. That he was going about this the wrong way." Another drag on the cigarette. "He wouldn't listen."

Joe's jaw clenched; his trembling had started again. He glanced around the lobby, trying to spot who else was in on this with Hammond…but…

"You've had some major shocks. You weren't given enough support to deal with them. You're confused, you're scared…so you panicked and bolted. That's normal. Understandable." A sardonic smile touched Hammond's voice. "You've also shown up some holes in the security here. Like I said, intelligent."

"Go on," Joe rasped.

Another drag of that cigarette. Hammond looked out at the lobby. "There's two ways this can go. You've had a chance to calm down and think. So…you come along, peacefully. No one gets hurt by accident."

Joe followed Hammond's gaze. The family with the baby; the two old men…the woman in the wheelchair, now holding her young son…

"We help you get your life back together. Maybe even reconcile with your father." Hammond's gaze was still on the lobby. "Though I can't make any promises there. We help you, you help us."

"Help you _how?"_

"You're not stupid, Joe. Us. The Soviets. China. Someone of your Gifts…you figure it out." Hammond looked away. "I hate seeing talent wasted. Especially talent like yours."

Joe set the bottle of juice down. "And the other way?"

Hammond only looked at him.

Silence.

Finally Hammond got to his feet, his hand firm on Joe's shoulder. "Come on. Let's go back upstairs. They should have lunch ready up there."

Joe didn't move.

"Joe." Hammond's voice sharpened; Joe looked up. "There's security on the doors. You see them. As I said, you're smart. You knew you couldn't win that fight. Look there." Hammond nodded towards the payphones, the three orderlies. "We don't want to hurt you. Don't force the issue, son."

"One question." The words rasped out; Joe struggled to stay calm: a plea for just one bit of truth. "New Orleans. My brother…Frank…"

Hammond looked away, back towards the lobby windows.

Eyes squeezed shut, Joe fought the tears back. His side was itching again; head bowed, he crossed his arms, bent over his lap. The tattoo. _Jamie._ This had to be a lie. _It had to be._

… _Frank's lifeless, staring gaze…_

"Come on," Hammond said quietly. "No one's mad at you. It's our fault for not realizing how scared you were."

 _Our._ So this hospital was some government thing, then. "I want to call home."

"There's phones upstairs."

"From there." Joe nodded towards the payphones.

Silence…then a sigh. "Don't make this hard, Joe. Please."

"I'm not." Somehow, Joe kept his voice steady. "I'm asking to use a public payphone."

A long hesitation. "I can't let you do that."

Admission enough. Joe's arms tightened around himself. "I didn't think you would."

He pushed to his feet, stumbled; Hammond steadied him, helped Joe to limp back across the lobby, heading towards the elevators.

Joe was a prisoner…but at least Hammond was trying to be decent about it. Yeah. Give the guy a medal. And all that about _reconciling_ with Dad… "So Dad's in on this, too?" Joe said bitterly.

"Stop it, Joe. I've stuck my neck out too far already for this."

"Yeah, you're a real hero."

Hammond pulled Joe around to face him. "There was another man with me who would gladly take over. You wouldn't like his way at all. Clotheslining someone with an IV pole makes a man un-inclined to be charitable."

The orderlies were moving up. Hammond raised his hand slightly — the orderlies halted, but were in tackling range. Behind Hammond, at the doors, the security guards watched the exchange.

People were still coming into the lobby, laughing, chattering, weary, solemn…then…

…gold-brown hair under a ball cap, blue sweatshirt…

Heart leaping, Joe froze. _Frank!_

His brother had entered the lobby and stopped, looking around before heading towards the directory. No one seemed to take any notice of him.

Yet.

"Joe?" Hammond said. The orderlies were moving closer. Another suit was also easing in, towards Joe: Abrams.

If any of them spotted Frank…or if Frank didn't see Joe was here…or worse, if Frank _did_ but didn't realize what was going on…

Joe shifted, settling his balance even as he bowed his head, giving in. Hammond patted him on the shoulder and gave Joe a gentle push towards the elevators.

But then, a _kiai_ ripping from his throat, Joe lashed out, a controlled strike and sweep that knocked Hammond to the floor. Joe staggered, apparently off-balance —

The orderlies moved in, as people started screaming and running away.

— as Joe hit the floor in a fake fall that ended with his back against the nearest wall. His hands braced on the tiled floor, Joe scrabbled back to huddle in a frightened crouch…now facing the orderlies and seeing the lobby beyond them.

Three orderlies, one with restraints. The security guards were running over, spreading out to cut off possible escape routes.

"I warned you, Hammond," Abrams was saying, as Hammond got to his feet. "I told you he was dangerous."

The orderlies had Joe surrounded; others were moving in. One was talking, saying soothing things as he and the others inched closer.

Behind them, Frank stared in Joe's direction.

Whimpering, widening his eyes in fake fear, Joe scrabbled back a bit more to get his position right: right arm up as if to fend off a blow, his left hand and arm set on the floor —

— and launched up, braced against his left arm, the rest of his body driving out in a roundhouse kick intended to smash into whoever was closest —

— just as others tackled Joe at exactly the wrong moment. His right foot cracked into someone's ribcage just as he fell onto his left for balance, and then he was pile-driven hard against the tile. The orderlies shoved Joe down, grabbing and twisting his arms back, forcing restraints around his wrists and legs, pushing his head against the floor tile. Joe struggled, screaming anything he could think of…along with one specific word.

" _Thatcher!"_

His arms and feet restrained and cuffed, the orderlies hauled Joe up. Hands yanked his head back — one of the orderlies had a hood in his hands, the obvious intent to shut Joe up. Twisting, struggling, Joe looked desperately around the lobby; he couldn't see Frank.

Hallucination or real, it didn't matter. Joe had one more message to send.

 _Please, God, let it be understood!_

Joe shoved all his remaining energy and concentration into one bright _flash_ of magic, an empty strike at Abrams and Hammond that impacted their shields and haloed them in showy, obvious, _visible_ magic _—_

— oh God, Abrams was Gifted, _too?_

Then something _slammed_ through Joe's wavering shields, seizing him in a tight mental grip that spiked into an agonizing migraine — just as the hood was yanked down over Joe's head, cutting off his sight.

"Take him to 10-Genesis," Abrams snarled. "Full restraints. Take no chances."

…and Joe fell into nightmare.


	11. Infiltration

_A/N: sorry for the late post! Hmmm. I seem to have stirred something up with that last chapter. ;) Thanks to Paulina Ann, Caranath, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, MoonlightGypsy, ThirteenAM, Rangerlyn, Xenitha, MDPerryfan, & AlecTowser for the review & comments!  
_

 _By the way, no one here on FFNet gets paid for writing. The only thing that keeps us writers going is your comments & reviews. So when you read a tale (not just mine; anyone here), comment! Showing your appreciation ensures there's always tales to read!_

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 _San Francisco, July 1978_

" _That should do it," Joe had said._

 _The air around Frank felt charged, like someone held a balloon right above his skin. Joe was staring at the air around Frank with definite satisfaction, but Kris had been scowling._

" _It looks okay," Kris had said. "But…um…will it stand up to Josh?"_

" _They're my shields, Tag," Joe had said._

" _And it's my skin," Frank had said. "I really don't want to explain to Dad how I got french-fried if this doesn't work."_

" _What, you don't trust your little brother?" Joe said, with a lopsided grin._

 _Frank sighed. Trusting Joe wasn't the problem; trusting the spooky stuff was. And heading out to the Center's back field and seeing most of the Blades gathered around — along with Trevor, the Center's Heal-Gifted doctor — hadn't helped matters. Well, okay, Trevor being there made sense, but…_

" _Ready to test to destruction, ché?" Joshua hadn't been in his usual eye-blinding colors, but in camos and a black sweatshirt. He'd even foregone the beads in his short dreads. Dear God._

" _Heathen un-believer," Joe had said airily. "Give it your best shot, Josh. I'm ready."_

"You're _ready?" Frank had said. "What about me?"_

" _Don't worry, ese," one of the other Blades, Angel, said, a muscular Hispanic man with his hair slicked in a tight tail and arms sleeved in religious tattoos. "That's why we've got shovels."_

" _And the fire extinguishers," someone else said._

" _And a broom and dustpan. Did someone bring the urn?"_

" _I've got an ashtray — that okay?"_

" _Can it, team," Joshua overrode them. "Stop freaking our mundane. Think of the pizza Joe'll be buying if this doesn't work."_

" _You guys are so comforting," Frank had said._

" _It should be," Joe had said. "I can't afford all that pizza, and they know it."_

" _We'll save you some when you get out of ICU, Handsome," Joshua had said. "Now sit, there. Joe, sit behind Angel, and face away."_

 _Joe had halted. "But that means I can't see."_

" _It's not a proper test if you monitor what's going on and feed the shields energy, ché. You said 'standalone', we test 'standalone'. Now, both of you,_ sit!"

 _That last syllable had been Joshua's drill-sergeant voice. With a sigh, Frank had dropped to sit in the center of space…and that was the only warning he had._

 _Sitting there clenching his hands in the grass while bright flashes of magic cracked and sparked close to his face — it took every ounce of will for Frank to beat down his instinct for self-preservation, sit still, and do nothing. Finally he closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep…but then the noise had stopped._

" _That's as far as we're taking it, darlin's," Joshua said. "I'm not risking Frank's handsome skin just to test shields to full destruction."_

 _Frank had opened his eyes: Joshua had been nodding slowly. Several of the Blades had been focused in concentration, with Angel getting up to kneel closer, holding Frank in place with a hand on his shoulder._

" _Weaker than your personal ones, ché," Joshua said to Joe. "But they held long enough and better than a pre-set. Good job."_

" _There's more, Josh," said Kris. "We experimented a bit. I can't touch-target Frank, either. Um, with anything bad, I mean."_

 _Their little tagalong was a jack, having a mix of any number of small Gifts; touch-targeting involved grabbing hold and channeling an attack through the physical contact, which usually bypassed most shields. Kris had given them a chilling lesson in how potentially fatal that could be shortly after Frank and Joe had arrived at the Center; Frank would never look at a whole roasting-chicken the same way again._

" _I wouldn't count on that holding for stronger Gifts, though, darlin'," Joshua had said. "Angel?"_

" _Me impresionan con nuestro Fénix, diré eso,_ _" Angel muttered. "If you didn't know better, you'd think Frank here was Gifted. How the hell did you two_ _bisoños_ _manage that?"_

" _I'm just the guinea pig," Frank said. "Ask Mr. Nuke over there."_

" _Huh," Joshua said. "Joe? You okay?"_

 _Joe had been collapsed over his hands, shaking his head to clear it. But with his crutch, he'd levered himself back to his feet. "Yeah. I felt those strikes. I mean, it didn't hurt, but I could tell Frank was getting hit."_

" _Wonderful," Frank muttered. "You ask if he's okay, but not the guy sitting at ground zero. Your concern is overwhelming, Josh."_

" _Handsome, you not being a small pile of cinders is its own answer. Now, if your brother can apply these shields to our non-mage-Gifted…"_

" _He already tried on me and Mar," Kris had said. "No go."_

" _It uses me and Frank's blood and family connection. Adoption just isn't close enough —" Joe had grinned at Kris, "— even with an officially notarized certificate. And they won't come down unless they're brute-forced or I take them down, either."_

 _Joshua walked around Frank, as if studying a work of art. "This has got to be the slickest application of the Laws of Contagion and Association I've run into, ché. What if Trevor needs to work on him?"_

" _That's just it, Josh." Kris's voice had been bursting with pride. "They'll let Heal-Gift through. They just keep out bad stuff."_

" _They read_ intent?" _Joshua had been staring, and he wasn't the only one. A couple more of the others had gotten to their feet to join Angel in studying Frank closely; Frank was starting to feel like one of Jamie's art exhibits at MoMA._

" _Tag's wards do that," Frank had said defensively. "It makes sense that shields should be able to, too."_

" _Yeah…well…and I just copied them," Joe said. "It was easy."_

" _Dammit, it's not fair," Joshua said to the sky. "Intelligent, gorgeous, and innovative, and they both have to be straight."_

" _You'll get over it, Josh," Frank said. "Eventually."_

 _Then Joe had laughed. "Not with all the pizza he owes us now…"_

 _# # #_

 _New York, August 1978_

Heading back towards that grim stone building had taken more guts than Frank had thought. Here it was — one way or another, he'd get the truth…

…and Frank didn't know which he was praying for, at this point.

He made a small detour into one of the souvenir stores: a Yankees baseball cap would hide his hair and change his profile without burdening him down too much. On another thought, Frank also grabbed a backpack and found sweats in Joe's size — white sweats emblazoned with that stupid "I heart apple" thing over and over. If Joe was alive and in that hospital…and the burned body had been wearing Joe's jacket, at least…his brother couldn't exactly walk out onto NYC streets in a hospital gown.

Then again, Joe _could_ , and Frank wouldn't put it past him to try, but no sense giving the world that kind of show. And for all the anxiety the fluffy-haired idiot had put Frank and Dad through this past week, Joe deserved every bit of embarrassment those garish sweats would give him.

If Joe was alive. If.

Joe's original jacket, though — he wouldn't like losing that at all. The brothers had taken time with their jackets long before they'd joined the Blades, sewing hidden pockets inside the linings to carry small items that they'd found useful: lock-picks, penlights, jackknifes. Nothing big, nothing heavy: Dad had even copied the idea for his own coats.

Frank put his windbreaker on and slung the backpack over his shoulder, pulling the baseball cap down as low as it could go, then followed a pair of guys in scrubs heading towards the front doors of the hospital. People were just walking in through the front of the building, some in scrubs, some carrying clipboards, others just in regular street clothes. Frank stopped for a moment, studying the entrance. Glass front, revolving door. No security checkpoints: there didn't seem to be any ID check or guards.

That Frank could see. Important point.

With a deep breath, Frank fell in behind one of the street-clothes clusters: an older couple fussing over a cranky toddler while their young teen-age daughter whined about having to see Grandma _again,_ Grandma _smelled_ and she was always talking to that _doll…_

Frank bit back a sad smile. Grandma Kelly was in a nursing home in Boston; she had a doll that she called "Laura", Mom's name — Mom had died of cancer when Frank was ten — and always insisted that Frank and Joe talk to it. Spooked and upset, Frank had cut his last visit to Gramma short and refused to go back.

But Joe'd had the Sight, a Gift that supposedly ran in the Irish bloodlines, the ability to see ghosts and ghoulies and things that went bump in the night. If Grandma had it, too, if Joe had gotten that Gift from her side of the family — Frank sighed. He hadn't seen Grandma since New Orleans, but once he got back to Bayport, Frank was going to visit her and talk…and this time, _listen._

But Frank held his peace as the girl continued to whine. Just outside the glass front of the hospital and the revolving doors, as the family stopped to soothe the cranky toddler, Finally, nerves stretched to breaking point, Frank leaned towards the teenage girl, just enough to be heard.

"The doll's haunted." Frank didn't actually know that, but anything to stop the whining. "That's why she talks to it."

Openly startled, the girl looked back, but then eye-rolling teen sarcasm took over. "Gimme a break."

"No, really." Frank nodded at the building. "These old places are haunted because they treated patients really bad back then."

He knew that from Kris. As part of their continued training, Kris made both Frank and Joe help her with hauntings in the Bay Area. "Help" meant to help whatever was there move on, and the hauntings were never peaceful. Frank kept a physical eye out for normal trespassers and security, while Joe kept magical watch over Tag's back as she "stepped out" to deal with the spirits, and both Frank and Joe had to force-feed Tag her migraine meds and Gatorade after a session. All of it, nerve-wracking, scary, tense work.

Frank didn't have the Sight and couldn't see any of the ghosts, but some of those sessions still haunted him.

And now…Joe…

"Lisa, come _on."_ The parents had stopped at the revolving door, looking at their daughter and Frank. The girl ran to catch up.

With a sigh, Frank shouldered the backpack and entered the lobby proper.

The lobby was light-filled and airy, the front stories of the old entry building removed to create one large, high-ceilinged atrium. For a long moment, Frank only stood there, looking around and getting his bearings: people in both street clothes and various hospital uniforms, pay phones there, plants everywhere, a large three-tiered fountain spraying water near to the ceiling, information desk in the center, a gift-shop just behind that with one of NYC's ubiquitous bagel carts off to the side, complete with a casual eating area. There — directory, near the corridor back to the elevator —

— _yells._

Men in white orderly uniforms and armed security guards were running towards the chaos: someone was fighting, the orderlies tackling him to the ground as whoever it was yelled at the top of his lungs — a hoarse, raspy shout that Frank _recognized_ —

 _Joe!_

Heart pounding, Frank started forward, only to halt cold when one word rang clear in the chaos.

" _Thatcher!"_

Then Frank saw Hammond…and Abrams…

…as a bright flash of gold haloed both men in a fiery aurora. Frank saw it clearly: the flash surrounded both Hammond and Abrams in a near-perfect egg-shape, inches from their skin.

Oh God — so not just Hammond, but _Abrams_ was Gifted.

Joe yelling _Thatcher_ — Frank had held back in New Orleans. If he hadn't, if he'd charged in, both he and Joe would've been dead by torture, and worse, at Thatcher's hands. It had to be a warning…a dire, deadly warning.

 _Go for help. Magic. Treachery._

Frank backed away fast, made it behind the stand of payphones. He wanted to pile in. He wanted to rip throats out: Hammond, Abrams, the orderlies beating his brother, the security guards piling in — but Frank held himself still. He couldn't help Joe, not now; Joe was badly outnumbered, and Frank jumping in wouldn't change that, especially not against two potential-CIA Gifted. A straight-on frontal assault would only get Frank recognized and grabbed…and killed…and Joe would still be in those hands, with even less chance than before.

Frank eased to the nearest bench as those men yanked a hood over Joe's head, as Joe went limp, as Joe was dragged away. Frank couldn't still his own shaking; eyes closed, he bent over his knees, breathing through his hands to keep the dizzying rush of relief and joy under control. Joe was alive. _Joe was alive._

But under that, _rage._

So Hammond and Abrams had _kidnapped_ his brother. The government that was sworn to _protect_ them, that Dad worked for, that Dad had taught Frank and Joe to value and believe in — all that trust broken, violated, beaten and thrown out without a thought to the lives shattered in its wake. Hammond had _known_ ,yet had coldly, callously told them that Joe was dead. They'd been shown a body charred beyond recognition…someone else's body. Another victim, someone sacrificed to enforce the charade, another life broken and discarded as so much trash.

Anyone who would do that wouldn't hesitate to make Frank the next body.

Every horror story, every warning, every bit of knowledge that the Blades had told them over the past few months — about the feds, the CIA, Black Ops, those who saw nothing wrong with the use of force and terror to recruit, to enforce obedience and loyalty, to use them up and take everything they didn't want to give — all of it now slammed home. Frank had never been sure how much to really believe, how much was just paranoia on the Association's part…but now, here: undeniable, cold, hard proof.

And Frank was a mundane, greenhorn, _bisoño,_ rookie, still shiny, wet behind the ears…

 _Stop._ He wasn't helpless. He wouldn't let himself be helpless. He'd been trained by everything that Bay Area Center could offer, on top of everything that Dad had been teaching Frank and Joe since they were kids.

Frank shoved himself to his feet and started towards the elevators. Government facility or not, this was a public place. He needed reconnaissance — information on layout, security, personnel, armaments. He had an advantage: they didn't know he was here. They didn't know he knew, or that he had backup coming.

Waiting for the elevator, surrounded by other normal people talking, looking impatient, bored, restless, sad…Frank had to think. Dad thought Joe was dead, too. Hammond hadn't pulled any punches, there. Dad's outburst and grieving had been real…

…had it?

Frank rubbed at his forehead. He'd been too numb, too sickened by the body, too wrapped in shock and grief to pay much attention to Dad.

 _I didn't want it to be this way…I know…_

What had Dad known? What had Hammond meant? Dad had contacts all through military intelligence, FBI, CIA, and NYPD. If Dad found out that Joe was still alive, that the defection had only been a set-up to get Joe, whatever Frank did would be a small pop-gun next to the ten-ton-nuke that Dad would drop…

…unless Dad already knew…

Frank got on the elevator, noting the buttons: five floors. None of the others pressed the button for Four or Five, so Frank left those alone for the moment. He followed an elderly couple when they exited at Two into a comfortable waiting lounge, corridors leading off on both sides into the actual patient wards. Making sure the ball-cap was pulled low, Frank walked the floors — Three, Two, then Ground — following the hallway through all the wings, making the rounds of the rooms and familiarizing himself with the layout even as he searched for where they were holding Joe.

 _10-Genesis_ , Abrams had said. It hadn't sounded good.

Central lounges near the elevators, with extensive wings leading off from either side. Long, rambling corridors. Cameras, there. Nurses stations in each section, with locked rooms behind the desks marked _Secure Isolation_ , filing cabinets, phones, orderlies and nurses having coffee and talking. Fire alarm triggers, sprinklers in the ceiling, fire extinguishers set in the wall. Janitorial rooms, laundry, exercise area with treadmills…stairwells at the very end.

Patient rooms: some empty, others with dull-eyed people sitting and staring out the windows, or laughing and talking with visitors. Very few of the patients were in actual hospital gowns; most were in street clothes, though all had plastic wristbands. Nothing labeled _Genesis_ on the lower three floors — and when he checked the fourth and fifth, the wards were sealed off behind electromagnetic locks and security keypads.

Cafeteria, chapel, and offices on the ground floor, with doors from the cafeteria leading out onto the back grounds. A park-like wooded area and gardens out back, with picnic tables and patios: could be useful for hiding.

All the staff — janitors, nurses, orderlies, doctors, even the candy-stripers — all had photo-ID badges on them, not that anyone seemed to pay attention to them.

Given what Frank had seen below, if these people were smart, they'd have Joe in one of the lock-down wards. Somehow, Frank doubted that Hammond and Abrams had gotten their jobs by being stupid.

Back in the lobby, Frank settled near the fountain, thinking. So Hammond and Abrams were Gifted, Hammond mage-Gifted, Abrams unknown. That implied others here had to be, too, especially if they had to hold Gifted like Joe.

A hospital: that also meant access to drugs, doctors… _procedures._

His little brother was in the hands of those who thought nothing of killing an innocent, of ruining lives, of shattering families.

Rage was a cold stone in his chest. Hands clenched in his pockets, Frank pushed up from the chair and back towards the elevator. He had a plan, but he needed some heavy preparation to pull it off.

Next step: find out where Joe was. Steal a pair of scrubs. Infiltrate high-security locked-down wards of a government mental hospital that had CIA Gifted on its payroll, free his brother, and make it out without losing sanity, limbs, or life.

No sweat.


	12. Lucy in the Sky

_A/N: I've been saying it a lot for this tale: MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ahem. Anyway, thanks to SunshineInTheGraySky, Wendylouwho10, Caranath, Leyapearl, Paulina Ann, Thirteen AM, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley (who's just now catching up on the tale - welcome aboard!), Barb, & Drumboy100 for the reviews, favorites, & comments!  
_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

 _Screaming…someone was screaming…_

 _Joe's side itched horribly. He lay in something wet, something that made it impossible to just fall into unknowing darkness._

 _Blood. His own. Frank's._

 _But Joe wouldn't abandon his brother, not ever. Fighting against his bonds, Joe kept his gaze fixed on Frank's face…_

 _...terrified, pleading eyes..._

Hands hauled him up.

"Triple the dose, the whole mix," someone snarled. "Add the lysergic diethylamide."

 _Hands grabbed him, wrinkled soft hands that had never done a hard day's work. Blood-smeared hands, hands that stank of gore, hands that stroked, prodded, forced his mouth open…_

… _the screaming faded to labored breathing…then…silence…_

"Are you _trying_ to kill him?"

"You have your orders."

Another cool touch, small hands poking him…

 _Pinpricks jabbed deep into Joe's chest, brain, heart, as other hands yanked Frank's head back…_

… _and slit his throat._

 _Blood…so much blood. It washed toward Joe, surf on the sand, bleeding up into the sky…_

"Let me try. He can't resist now."

Another chill traced his face, down his neck…

 _Cold metal pressing against his neck, just under his jaw. "Open your eyes."_

 _Someone else was watching…someone just behind the darkness. Other hands touched him, long-fingered and gentle, caressing…itching…_

… _reaching_ in…

Color and light swirled around him.

Joe couldn't move. He couldn't wake. He could only lay there, staring up at the bright, vivid blue of the sky through a shattered, broken ceiling.

 _Bright, vivid blue, even in death…Frank's lifeless, accusing gaze stared Joe down…_

 _Gentle hands reached into him, soft insistent pressure parting his skin, his ribs…grabbing, tugging gently, oh, so gently…pulling him out, thread by thread…_

" _You got Frank killed. You — you're telling me —"_

 _Dad grabbed Joe, hurled him onto the couch, and Joe huddled there, unable to run, unable to escape…_

… _screaming…someone was screaming…_

" _Damn you, answer me!"_

 _And then…_

Faces surrounded him, as hands shoved him down and cold metal locked around his wrists and legs.

"Well, Leta?"

… _pushing_ in… _and Joe moaned, unable to stop…_

… _fire swept closer, thick oily smoke stinking of melted shag carpet. The itching worsened, every inch of his skin aflame. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move…but it wouldn't let up, burning…screaming…_

— _he had to protect, he had to shield — the children were screaming —_

 _Braced against the wall and floor, Joe curled over them. He had to hold. He would not let them die — he would not — they would not —_

… _from the drain, Frank's lifeless, accusing gaze…_

"Incredible." A soft murmur. "Still."

"Then we remove it. Permanently."

… _the fire swept closer. Black smoke thickened, choking, blinding; the hissing grew louder._

 _Not children — Joe was curled around his brother, Frank unconscious, bleeding. Joe would not give in. He would not give up. He would not break. Ever._

… _the screaming faded…_

"I told you, we have to process this one fast. Before certain liabilities get suspicious."

"And I told _you —"_

"Overruled. It happens now."

— _the hissing peaked —_

 _Fire._

With a moan, Joe woke, shivering in the shock of nightmare. Cold…he was so cold. Dizzy, he blinked up, then lifted his head just enough to register that he was on a gurney, strapped down and in restraints, with another IV…then, panting, Joe collapsed back.

The room was different: gray foam baffles lined the walls, the only sound the quiet hum of ventilation above him. No windows. Dim recessed lights in the ceiling. The stench of urine and bleach.

Shivering, gulping air, Joe lay there, trying to remember. But then he focused on that ceiling, on the walls, fighting sudden, overwhelming terror.

The ceiling and walls were _breathing._

"Well. The dreamer awakes."

Squeaks, leather against tile: someone moved into Joe's sight. Peter Abrams.

"An interesting thing about your Gift." Abrams was toying with a long, thin metal pick. "Know what that is?"

His head pounding, Joe tried to focus. They must have increased the drug dose; he could barely keep his eyes open. Colors and shapes swarmed across his vision. "Y'know, you people could've just _asked. Hey, wanna help your government?_ I would've said _yes._ "

"You're a compromised subject. You really think we'd trust your loyalty?"

"Don't see why not. You treat your people so wonderful."

Abrams smiled. "You might be a bit more polite. Y'see, your father and brother should be _dead._ No witnesses. No one likely to come to your rescue. You can thank Hammond for them still being alive."

There it was: confirmation that it was all a lie. "So…what…now they're hostages. Is that it?"

"You went a bit too far for us to trust you that much." Now Abrams held the pick up. The pick had black marks at various places along its blade. "Know what this is?"

Joe's breath caught.

"Looks like an ice pick, doesn't it? That's what they originally used, until they refined it." Abrams leaned over the rails and placed the point of the pick at the inner corner of Joe's left eye.

Oh God. Joe closed his eyes tight. He didn't want to see…didn't want to know…

"Ever hear of a transorbital lobotomy?"

Jaw clenched, Joe said nothing. Abrams was trying to freak him out. If they wanted Joe's Gift, they couldn't do anything like that.

"This is the tool they used. Surgeon would drive it right into the brain, up through the corner of the eye, right here." The pick pressed in, just a touch. "Both eyes. The marks are to tell how deep to go. Once he hit the right depth, he'd twist it around, turn parts of the brain to mush, then pull it out." The pressure vanished. Abrams held the pick up in front of his face, studying it as if fascinated. "No anesthesia. They used electroshock to subdue the patient beforehand. That machine, there."

Joe glanced before he could stop himself: an innocuous, white plastic cube. On its face, one meter, two black dials, and a jack.

The metal pick glinted in the light. "Of course, the procedure's fallen out of favor. Thorazine's much cheaper."

Speaking would only give this bastard what he wanted. Joe stared back up at the ceiling.

"Problem with drugs, though, is that you have to keep taking them. A bit problematic, if the person is a trouble-maker."

Some faint memory stirred, something Joe had heard someone say. "You really need a mustache to twirl, y'know."

Abrams actually laughed. "No, thanks. It makes it too easy for people to remember my face." He leaned casually against the bedrails. "What I said. The interesting part. Figure it out, yet?"

His side was itching again. Abruptly, Joe had enough. "What, that you're lying? You can't do any of that stuff. Not if you want me able to use my Gift."

"Oh, we don't need your mage-Gift. No, I'm talking about your _useful_ Gift." Abrams leaded forward. _"Amplifier."_

Say nothing. Don't respond. That's what he wants…

"Very interesting, that Gift." Abrams was studying the pick again. "We don't need you coherent or even conscious." Then he focused on Joe…and smiled. "We just need you alive."

Breathe. Joe had to breathe.

"Something to think about. I'll be back." Abrams slipped the pick inside his suit jacket. "We're just waiting for Dr. Lo to get back from lunch."

The door closed behind him, leaving Joe alone in the dim silence.

"Yeah, well, Jamie could give you Evil Overlord lessons, mister," Joe breathed. Don't panic. Don't _panic._

Yeah. Right. Drugged so that he could barely keep his eyes open, restrained, an electroshock machine right there, and a lobotomy on the schedule. Now was the _perfect_ time to panic.

Something touched his hand…something small, cool, hesitant.

Oh, yeah. The hallucinations. Don't forget to add that to the list.

His mind was heavy with drug, but Joe twisted as much as he could, trying to get the arm restraints in view. There, just barely…

Metal.

So much for burning through them. Without seeing the lock, Joe had no idea how to undo it, and right now, he didn't trust his mage-senses to feel it out, either. With the drugs this heavy, he'd either melt the metal and his hand off by accident or set fire to the bedding and flame-broil himself into an inedible Whopper, hold the cheese.

Don't panic.

Right, like lying here _not_ panicking was really helping.

That small, cool touch moved up his arm, then poked his shoulder, followed by a faint, whispery giggle. Joe looked…then went very still.

A child peeped over the edge of the bed: gray, washed-out, no color. Matted, tangled hair covered most of that young face…except her eyes: deep, shadowed hollows.

And like the men in the day-room, faintly transparent.

"I see you," Joe whispered. Dear God, what had they given him? Both the walls and floor were _breathing_ ; colors faded in and out, swirled through the walls…

…well, not to mention the ghost looking at him, but…

 _You saw us before, goop._

Great. His hallucinations had decided they wanted to chat.

 _Now they won't let you go, either._ Her gaze was on Joe's arm — the chill touch moved up and down, like a child playing "piano" with her fingers. _Will you play with us?_

That did it. The drug dose had to have been upped to the point that Joe was too far gone to ever come back. There was no other way he could be hearing this without freaking out good and royal.

Might as well accept it. Treat it real. He had no other options at this point. If he was that far gone, then he was screwed, no matter what he did.

"I can't play with anyone like this." If Joe could only see whatever they'd used to secure the restraints or even try to sense them out…but every time he closed his eyes to concentrate, he fell away — momentary drops into nightmare that jolted him awake again.

 _I mean after, goop. They make you like us and then you can't leave and then we can play 'cause no one'll see us._

 _After._ Deep breath. God only knew how many more breaths he would have left. "I'm not sticking around after. I've got a much better place to be."

 _You can't leave. They won't let you._

"They don't have any say in the matter." Joe turned his head to look at that small face again — and memory stirred through the haze of drugs. "My…my sister will help me. Just like I'd help you, if I could."

Another touch, this time on his wrist, near the restraint. _Sister._ That whisper was different, softer. _Have sister. Brother. You help. You said help._

 _Sarry! No!_ The child turned to stare at something below the level of the gurney. _We'll get in trouble!_

 _Help._ That softer whisper again. _Help Mattie. Help Sarry._

The restraint clicked and released.

For a moment, Joe only lay there, not believing that had happened. Then, slowly, he lifted his arm, flexing his hand to get feeling back. There couldn't be much time. He had to get loose. He had to get out of here, somehow. He managed to wiggle his arm out of the straps, then reached over to his other arm, feeling out the restraint. Not truly locked, just a simple twist-bolt. He got it open, undid the straps, then the restraints on his feet, somehow fumbled the bedrail down, and all but fell off the bed to the tiled floor.

Tiled floor, with a drain in the center.

… _blood trickling down to the drain, Frank limp and unmoving…_

Eyes closed tight, breathing deep and slow, Joe waited for the dizziness to pass. First things first: not caring about neatness, he pulled the IV out — three in one day. That had to be some new record. If he got out of this and only had a blown vein to show for it, he'd count himself lucky.

Clamping his hand over his arm to stop the bleeding, Joe did a slow, careful mental inventory. Drugged to the gills on God-knows-what, no real food for however long he'd been here, exhausted to the point that he dropped into dream-state whenever he closed his eyes. Shields: barely there, which meant he was fair game for anything these people did. Lovely. Mage-Gift: likewise shot, unless he had a few seconds to try to focus.

Doubtful that they'd give him that time.

Known facts about heroin: Gift-killer. Hard to focus when the brain's pleasure-centers were going _wheee_ , after all. Use still possible, in the same way that one could technically do surgery while wearing sheepskin mittens.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow skitter away, as if someone scrambled to hide. But the first child still stood there, watching him.

Dressed in a long, ragged gown, she wavered in and out of focus, as if the walls were a tide washing in to cover her, then receding to reveal her as she was before: unmoving, watching with that suspicious, serious face.

If they weren't hallucinations…if they were ghosts…Joe shuddered. "Look, do you have a name? I'm Joe."

 _I know_ that, _goop._ Typical kid scorn over stupid grown-ups. _I'm Mattie._

"Um…okay. The other one's your sister? Sarry…short for, what, Sarah?"

Mattie nodded.

"Sarah…?" Joe called softly; skittering whispered across the tile behind him. "Thank you." Using the bed to brace himself, Joe made it to his feet and looked around.

No windows. Walls thickly padded with acoustic baffling; the room stank of bleach and urine. A double-basin stainless steel sink gleamed against the wall, the shelving above it stacked with boxes of gloves and gauze. In the far corner, an examination chair with leather and metal restraints and an IV pole affixed to it. A small tray-table sat next to it.

But Joe's gaze fell on the electroshock device.

Well, he had a few seconds to focus.

He laid both hands on it. No finesse here: just a shock of whatever energy he could muster, straight into the electrode jacks. He was rewarded by sparks, a thin thread of smoke, and the acrid smell of ozone and burnt wire.

Hurray for sheep-mitten surgery.

Now for step two: getting out of here.

Even that bit of magic left him dizzy and graying out. Panting, Joe staggered to the door, fell against the wall, and paused. He could hear voices out in the hall, muffled by the room's acoustic tile.

 _Like me._ The fainter whisper, Sarah, behind him. _You…like me._

"Yeah, I do, honey," Joe murmured. "I like you a lot." More heated whispering at that; he ignored it. Likely guards out there. But even if he took care of them somehow, there'd be nurses, orderlies, and whoever else Hammond and Abrams had with them. Joe didn't think Hammond would be so fatherly a second time.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Joe waited out another dizzy spell. The colors and shapes would not stop swimming around him. If he could just get a clear moment…

 _Sarry can do that, too._ Mattie sounded unimpressed.

"Do what?"

 _What you did. Make stuff spark and smell funny._

Great. His hallucinations wanted to play _one-up._

Wait a minute…

Joe rubbed at his temples to ease the ache, trying to remember what Kris had said about ghosts and the In-Between…though her explanations had all been tempered with _"It's just my best guess"._ Gifts were part of the physical body, but could be channeled into the In-Between. Ghosts tended to be laws unto themselves, depending on what had put them there and what the area was like. Energy affecting energy…

Kris hadn't said anything about hallucinations, though. He'd have to get on her case about that.

 _Help Sarry._ Sarah's fainter whisper behind him, followed by another cool touch to Joe's hand. _Help Mattie!_

… _be careful what you promise…_

"I don't know how, Sarry." It was an effort to stay standing. "But if I can get out of here, I'll help you anyway I can. I promise."

 _Booshwash!_ Mattie glared, those dark, hollowed eyes. _You're lying!_

What in the world was _booshwash?_ The room was spinning again; Joe had to close his eyes. "I mean it, Mattie. If you help me, I'll help you back. I'll help you get out of here."

Whether they helped him or not, it didn't matter. He wouldn't leave any child stuck in this place. Not that he would tell them that, not when he needed all the help he could get, even from hallucinations.

 _Fire, Mattie. He light!_ The touch on his hand firmed: Sarah. The touch felt odd, too smooth and incomplete. _Like Johnny. Joe help!_

"Johnny?" Someone else to help, maybe?

 _He drew us pretty pictures._ Mattie scuffed at the tile. _They took him away._

So much for that idea. Joe could still hear the muffled voices out in the corridor, an argument: Hammond's angry voice, Abrams, someone else. "Sarah…can you hook in? Like…reach inside me and use my…my light?"

He should be able to manage that. All he needed was a distraction, something that would allow him to get out in the confusion, or at least find someplace to hide. If these ghosts could blow the electrical system…

More heated whispers behind him. _There's folks right outside the door._ Mattie sounded uncertain. _They're fussin' real loud._

Joe nodded, trying to think. A mental hospital: so blowing the electricity shouldn't kill anyone. As for the guards and other staff — they had to know what was going on, so they were complicit. No need to be careful, then, and right now, Joe wasn't feeling merciful.

 _Let in! Let in!_ The chill touch changed; it felt like ice gripped his finger, trying to shake his hand.

"Take it, Sarah," Joe whispered. "Whatever you need. Mess 'em up good, honey. Go have fun." He focused as best he could, trying to picture energy flowing down his arm and into a small child's hand…

Something batted his focus away, like an irritating fly…then _reached_ into him and _yanked._

Graying out, Joe caught himself against the wall before he fainted. Behind him, Sarah giggled, faint and whispery, followed by a fast impression of a shadow skittering through the wall.

Yells erupted outside the door; the lights flickered, sputtered.

Now or never.

But Joe glanced up at the flickering lights: whatever Sarah was doing might not be enough.

Well, he had a few more seconds to focus.

Setting random fires: too easy to get out of control, especially as drugged as he was. Breathing out, placing his hands against the acoustic baffling, Joe closed his eyes, letting himself _feel_ the energy in the walls. There — electricity thrummed under his hands, thin flows of wires leading to thicker conduits…older wiring, it felt like. Older, _fragile_ wiring.

"Yeah, well, this is why you don't lie to mage-Gifted," Joe muttered. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed all the energy from that wiring that he could manage and _shoved_ it into that conduit, a large, crude hatchet-blow of sheepskin-mitten surgery.

With an explosive flash and crackling sparks, the lights blew out.

Jaw clenched, biting his lip hard to keep from swearing, Joe sank to the floor, cradling his hands. That had _hurt._

Out in the hall, the yells escalated to screaming, with some very definite cursing that sounded like Hammond and Abrams, running footsteps, all of it fading down the hall and ending in a door slam.

Another cool touch, definite tugging on his hand. _We have a hidey-place_. _They won't let us leave, so we hide._

Joe looked down at that stubborn face. "Ok, Mattie. I trust you." Why wouldn't they let them leave? What possible use…?

Worry about that later. Move now.

The magic had cost him. Bracing himself against the wall to pull himself back to his feet, dizziness and nausea nearly dropped him right back to the floor. Joe fumbled at the door, pressed the handle down so it swung open into a dark hallway and chaos…

…and found himself staring into the startled faces of two white-clad orderlies.

Joe stumbled back, only saved himself from falling flat by clutching at the wall. Too fast, too quick: both orderlies recovered and rushed into the room. Yelling for help, they grabbed Joe, pinioning his arms and shoving him back towards the gurney.

Of all the evil henchmen, he had to get the smart ones. Dizzy, drugged, Joe tried to twist, to sweep their legs out, to get a couple precious seconds to focus, but they had him off-balance, twisting his arms back and slamming him against the gurney —

Something blew into the room in a frigid rush of air — a fast impression of something _big_ jumping up onto the bed and grabbing Joe's shoulder. Again, that something _yanked_ — and the orderlies gasped and let go, backing up and staring behind Joe…

 _BOO! BOO!_

Screaming, the orderlies scrambled out the door on legs clumsy in fear, yelling at the top of their lungs.

Graying out, Joe fell to the floor, gripping the edge of the bed and shaking his head to clear it. Sarah's "shout"had made his entire skull ring.

 _This way! This way!_

Somehow, Joe made it to his feet and staggered after the small, gray shadow. This seemed to be a locked-down area, all the doors closed with signs reading _10-Genesis_ , _Secure Processing, Restricted: Drug Therapy, ECT 2,_ and other ominous things. The corridor and floor were dark, no lights, people yelling to get order, others screaming — where…?

The door at the end of the hallway was cracked open.

Joe could smell something burning, somewhere, but he managed to stagger down the corridor. He fell on the door and out into the main ward. Chaos reined: people shouting; nurses scurrying; smoke and sparks pouring from the computers, filing cabinets, and overhead lights; orderlies dragging people out from rooms and down the other corridor…and there, just on the other side of the nurses' main station, Hammond and Abrams and a nurse bent over the two orderlies, who had collapsed, convulsing…

…as fireballs flared up from the computers and filing cabinets in a bright flash and clouds of oily smoke…

 _Here! In here!_

Shouts, screams, panicking people running, others grabbing fire extinguishers — no one had seen him, yet. Another door was cracked open to his right, a small, dark room filled with piles of cloth and wheeled laundry bags, metal utility shelving. Joe didn't question — he stumbled in, tripped, caught himself on the shelving.

 _Down here._ Mattie crouched by a small wooden panel barely visible behind the shelves, almost hidden in the dark.

Joe studied the shelving: typical metal utility shelves, piled with scrubs, blankets, sheets, and other stuff. But how to move the shelving without making tell-tale noise…

Then the sprinklers came on, spraying the room in water, and from the yells, screams, and loud electric pops out in the hall, it wasn't just the laundry.

"I don't know how you managed all that, Sarah," Joe murmured, awed, "but you're wonderful. A wonderful, beautiful, little princess."

Chill suddenly wrapped around Joe's waist — as if someone hugged him.

Well, judging from the chaos outside, not like anyone would bother with laundry at the moment. Joe wedged himself in the crack between the shelving and the wall and _pushed,_ rocking the shelving back and forth until he'd wiggled it forward just enough for him to collapse next to the small panel, flush with the wall.

Bracing himself, he used his shoulder to force it open with a _crack —_ nailed in place, from the sound of it. Just enough to crawl through, just enough room to squirm in and set the panel back in place from the other side. Hopefully it and the shelving wouldn't be noticed in the chaos.

Dusty sunlight filtered down, enough to see steep, narrow stairs. Mattie stood at the top, haloed in the light, dust motes drifting through her. Not trusting his balance or remaining energy, Joe hauled himself up the stairs with his arms, coughing and sneezing in the heavy dust.

The space opened up. Joe stopped, blinking, his eyes watering. Garret windows. The smells of heavy must, mildew, rot. An attic.

 _They never find us up here._

That much registered before everything caught up: drugs, exhaustion, lack of food, the energy drains, magic. Joe collapsed onto his hands, panting…

 _Now will you play with us?_

…and passed out.


	13. Uncovered

_A/N: So...um...I take it I'm doing good? :P Anyway, thanks to Barb, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley, the two ever-Anonymous Guests (Guest 2: yes, it's the same Johnny), MoonlightGypsy, Caranath, ThirteenAM, Paulina Ann, & beachchick4 for the reviews, favorites & follows!  
_

 _Guest 1: the "candy striper" is in my tales in another form. In the episode, she's played by Jean Marie Hon, who folks might remember as "Ruth" from the awesome '70s live-action Saturday morning show, "Ark II" (one of my favorite shows growing-up!). "Ruth Hon" is part of Bay Area Center as the person in charge of the runaway shelter, Wings; I introduced her in "The SF Vampire". Still there, still smart, and in a position much more deserving of her brains. ;)  
_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

 _San Francisco, late July 1978_

" _One thing I don't understand…"_

 _It'd been a chilly, foggy day — typical San Francisco — and they'd been sprawled on the grass behind Bay Area Center after one of the king-of-the-hill training games, guzzling Gatorade, water, and fruit from the coolers. Both Joe and Frank had gotten proficient enough that Joshua now rotated them on the attacking side, swapping out with others as they taught the brothers all the dirty tricks and sneak-attack methods they knew._

 _Since he knew how to handle firearms, Frank got to play sniper half the time, and the other half learning how to take down Gifted as fast as possible. He had to admit, splattering everyone with paint-balls was rather satisfying…and fun. But something had occurred to Frank, something that made no sense._

" _Ask away, ché," Joshua had said. "I keep telling you there's no such thing as a stupid question."_

" _Stupid_ answers _, on the other hand…" Joe had muttered._

" _About New Orleans," Frank had said, with a quick glance at Joe. "You say shields don't stop bullets. But you and Tag did that shield, and it did. Stop the shrapnel, I mean. And shrapnel's close enough to bullets."_

" _It wasn't just them, Frank," Joe said._

 _But Joshua had given Frank one of those long, serious looks._

" _He's asking the question," Kris said to Joshua._

" _Lemme guess," Frank said, with a touch of irritation. "I won't understand the explanation." Joshua and some of the others had an annoying habit of talking down to Frank, just because he himself wasn't Gifted. Even Tag did that, though Frank didn't mind her as much — after all the years of his teasing her over the spooky stuff, she'd earned a bit of I-told-you-so…not that her explanations ever made much sense, anyway._

 _Joshua sighed. "That's not it at all. I just don't want to trigger an argument."_

" _What, is this more stuff you've been keeping secret from us?"_

" _Clarification," Joshua said. "I don't want to trigger a fight between you and Kris. Because this will, I guarantee it."_

 _Frank glanced at Kris, but she'd been staring at the ground._

" _People, head to the gym," Joshua said to the rest of the Blades. "Let me and Hawk talk to our rookies a bit." Joshua had waited until the group had dispersed, then he'd pulled sodas from the cooler and handed them around._

" _Short answer." Joshua grunted as he stretched back out. "We keyed our lives into those shields."_

 _Frank waited, then, "Okay…?"_

" _It's a last-ditch thing, big brother." Kris wasn't smiling — as usual — but her usual flat demeanor looked even more serious. "The lifeboat choice."_

 _It was an old ethical puzzle: one lifeboat, too many people to fit, and trying to save everyone would sink the boat and kill them all. The puzzle nearly always devolved into an argument over who got to live…and who had to die. Frank looked at their little tagalong — he did not like the implications of that._

" _Normally with mage-Gift, you channel the energy from the earth and into what you're doing." Joshua tapped the ground. "You use your own energy to tap and control it. With me so far?"_

 _Frank nodded warily._

" _Well…" Joshua took a deep breath, "with life-keying, the mage throws his own life into the magic — that's_ any _magic, ché, not just shields. No holding back, everything, all at once. Like Kris said, it's the last-ditch, no-other-choice, all-hope-gone option."_

" _Like blood magic," Kris picked at the grass, "it releases a lot of energy. But tons more, because it's a willing sacrifice."_

" _Only difference is that it's your own life, not someone else's," Joshua said. "And if you're attacking, it's an absolute final strike — mutually assured destruction. Your target's dead…but so are you."_

" _You —" Frank now stared at Joshua, "— you shouldn't have — we weren't —"_

" _You_ were _. You were innocents caught in a no-win, no-hope situation. That's what Blades do, ché. We protect those who can't protect themselves…no matter the cost."_

 _Kris raised her head. Frank had looked away, unable to meet her gaze._

" _It's not a secret," Joshua went on. "But Joe has to have his control solid before we teach that to him."_

" _He's already done it at least once accidentally, that I know of," Kris said quietly. "The fire last month. That explosion should've killed you and the kids, Joe. But it didn't, because you tied your life into that shield. You drained yourself to collapse."_

" _But I didn't die." Joe sounded confused. "Eme was there. His amp was hooked in. That's what saved us."_

" _That's why you didn't die." Kris's gaze was steady on Joe. "And why me and Josh survived, because you did the same thing at NOLA."_

" _It's why we're harping on you so hard," Joshua said. "You've come to this late, out of control, and tied in too damn much at the gut-level with that trauma. Mage and amp are a deadly combination. We've got to get that trauma-reaction wiped_ … _or you're going to end up killing your brother as well as yourself."_

" _I wouldn't — I'd_ never —"

" _Law of Association, big brother," Kris said. "Those connections run both ways."_

 _Joe had stared at Joshua, at Kris…then, muttering something under his breath, Joe got to his feet and limped away, down the hill towards the cliff-side path._

 _Frank watched him go, waiting until his brother was out of earshot before Frank finally dared the question. "You're implying the reason I'm in the Blades is to keep Joe balanced." Frank couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. "To break that reaction. Is that it?"_

 _Silence stretched out. Joshua had been giving Frank another of those looks._

" _Well?"_

" _When I made you the offer, in New Orleans, ché," Joshua said slowly, finally, "if you had said 'no', Joe would not be in the Blades. I would not risk it— because you're right, mostly. Right now, you're his balance."_

 _Frank had looked away…but then…_

" _But if Joe had said 'no'…" Joshua met Frank's gaze squarely, "I'd would've done everything in my power to convince you to still say 'yes'."_

# # #

 _NYC, August 1978_

Frank hadn't been idle.

He'd done another fast reconnoiter through the lower floors, double-checking that there wasn't anyone on life support or needed equipment (unlikely, since it was a psychiatric hospital, but Frank had to be sure). He had a plan, but Frank didn't want anyone killed by accident.

These people wouldn't let him get to Joe? Fine. Frank would bring the entire hospital out to _him._

An object lesson, Joshua called such things — make sure your enemy not only gets taken down, but knows that messing with you in the future is going to cost them more than they're willing to pay. The Blade Commander's words had been a lot more pungent, but Frank was well past the cursing point, all the way to cold, calculated efficiency.

It wasn't revenge. Frank kept telling himself that. Eye-for-an-eye might leave everyone blind, but deterrence with a huge helping of the threat of _mutually assured destruction_ were also valid defensive strategies.

They'd kidnapped his little brother, beaten him, forced him into restraints, and from what Frank had witnessed downstairs, drugged him. God only knew what else Joe had endured in the week that he'd been missing.

"Object lesson" was going to be a massive understatement.

Joe had to be on either fourth or fifth floors, in the men's wings. Frank had noted security cameras throughout the building and had taken care to keep the ball cap pulled low and his hair tucked under it. Let them film him. Those grainy tapes would only show a guy in a ball cap and windbreaker, and Frank would ditch both without a second thought.

First stop: laundry room.

That took timing and daring — though to Frank's surprise, the one on third floor wasn't locked. Then again, dirty scrubs and soiled bedding weren't high-theft items. He'd noted that the janitors here wore navy-blue scrubs; he found an oversized set and shoved them into the backpack, then waited behind the cracked-open door for a group of orderlies to pass by and slipped out behind them.

No one even glanced at him. Frank smiled to himself: score one for Joe's Romulan cloaking device. As long as Frank didn't do anything to draw attention, he should be ignored, especially if he looked and acted the part.

Frank stopped into the restroom to pull the scrubs on over his clothes; the extra layers made him look hefty. Good, another point of descriptive confusion. He left the ballcap on — he'd seen other janitors wearing them, so it wouldn't be out of place. Frank slung his jacket over his arm, along with the backpack: just a working stiff en route to his shift.

Next stop: one of the janitor's rooms — specifically, the one on second floor, which was across from an empty room and out of direct sight of the nurse's station.

That was trickier: those were locked. Well, Frank didn't blame them, there. They didn't need mentally disturbed people messing with cleaning chemicals, after all. Young detective wanna-be and Association Blade out to cause major havoc — that was another matter.

He was channeling Joe again. Hopefully that wasn't a bad sign.

The lock wasn't complicated: a driver's license slid through the jamb popped it. Frank slipped in and took a fast glance around, then started stuffing things into the back-pack: specific cleaning agents and supplies, rubber gloves, aluminum foil — and supplies for the coffee machine, including sugar. Frank loaded it all into the backpack; he'd sort everything out once he was in a safer spot.

Even better, half-empty pop cans littered one of the shelves — Frank emptied the leftover soda into a cart's trash-bag, then wrapped the cans in paper towels before stuffing them into the backpack, too. And…oh, joy…a _toolbox_. Perfect. Frank simply picked up the whole toolbox and walked out, un-hesitating and confident, as if he had a job to do. No one would stop someone in working clothes who carried a toolbox and looked busy.

Too bad Joe couldn't be in on this part. Oh, well, Frank deserved some fun on his own, for a change.

Joe. Time was passing fast.

Those orderlies hadn't been dragging his brother off for lunch, and whatever Joe had pulled couldn't have been good. Jaw clenched, Frank headed down the stairwells next to the elevators, past the lobby floor and down to the basement. The door at the bottom was padlocked and emblazoned with two large yellow and red signs: _WARNING: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. CHEMICAL STORAGE AREA. ELECTROCUTION HAZARD._

No one on the stairs, and if it was locked on the outside, that meant no one was inside the room, either. Careful to stay tucked under the concrete landing above him and hidden from view, Frank pulled out the lock-picks and set to work. No panic. No rush. That was the important part. Panicky detectives were _caught_ detectives. The lock popped easily — hardware store bargain-basement — and Frank slipped inside.

Bingo.

Clicking the light switch on, he shut the door, grabbed a metal folding chair and jammed it up under the door handle as an impromptu warning alarm. The rest of the room: gray concrete block and old stone, smelling damp and musty. One wall filled with thick electrical conduits and large fuse boxes, with rows of metal utility shelves with more cleaning chemicals, bags of fertilizer for the grounds, boxes of paper towels and toilet paper, cartons of extra fluorescent tubes, and barrels along the other wall.

Time to get to work. Both he and Joe had gotten straight A's in chemistry and smart junior detectives didn't get through school with teachers like Mr. Mack without learning how to create utter havoc. Frank still remembered Mr. Mack using liquid methane to send fire skittering all over the classroom floor.

Everything was a potential weapon. _Everything._ Smoke bombs, stink bombs, and other chaos, with the contents of a janitor's closet, bags of fertilizer, and cleaning chemicals? No sweat.

Frank headed back behind all the shelves and barrels…and halted. Unlike the neat organization of the shelves and supplies, the far rear corner was rough and unfinished, thick with cobwebs, the concrete floor crumbled away to expose dirt and cobbles underneath. Old, broken pallets and crates were piled back there, barricading the corner from the rest of the basement and filling the corner with odd shadows.

Shaking his head, Frank started to clamber over the junk pile — it was a perfect place to stay out of sight while he worked — but again, he halted.

Something wasn't right. The area was noticeably cooler than the rest of the basement, and even the light seemed dimmer — well, that was understandable. The ceiling lights were all in the front area. But still Frank hesitated, staring at the exposed cobbles and dirt…then, finally, backed away.

He'd been hanging around Tag and her spooky stuff too long. All her ghost stories had infiltrated his brain and given him the creeps over a simple basement corner. Spooky Basement In an Old Insane Asylum: 1, Skeptical Mundane Detective: 0.

Thank God Joe wasn't here. Frank would never live it down.

Settling between the shelves on the other side, Frank kept a sharp ear out for the door as he worked. He had to be fast, but careful; too many of these chemicals could leave him unconscious, corroded, or dead if he rushed. He didn't want to set a real fire either, accidentally or deliberately. He'd gone through that horror back in June, and such things were too easy to get out of control.

Though maybe once the building emptied…or once he found out what happened to Joe…

Focus. There was business.

It took more time than he hoped, but less than he'd feared. Frank carefully wrapped his work in aluminum foil and stashed everything in the backpack. More than enough to smoke out and stink up the entire building, with extra loud chaos mixed in, and then some.

Next up — the electricity.

Those big, dusty, ancient fuseboxes: Grandpa Hardy's house had boxes like these, pre-World War Two things that blew at the drop of a hat, and a mental hospital obviously wasn't high on the government's list of things that needed updated. Disabling the things and killing the electricity was child's play.

Well, child's play if said child had a tool box, a working knowledge of electronics, and didn't care what shape it was in afterwards…

Sparks and thick smoke erupted from all the boxes.

With a yell, Frank jerked back, as the stench of burning wires and ozone filled the basement and the lights blew out. He'd never seen Grandpa's fuse box do that, not even when Grandpa had accidentally blown the power for the whole street.

No time to worry about it now.

Taking care to padlock the basement door behind him — with a different lock found on one of the shelves — Frank beat it up the stairs to third floor and headed back into the ward area proper. People were milling around, laughing, joking, and shaking their heads over the "electricity in these old buildings", but no one showed real worry.

It wouldn't be too long before someone forced the basement door and discovered the deliberate sabotage. He had to work fast.

Another slide of the driver's license, another janitor's closet…and Frank lit smoke and stink bombs, dropped them into the janitor's cart, and walked out, careful to leave the door "accidentally" cracked behind him as thick smoke filled the room and spilled into the hallway. Don't run. Walk as if he had every right to be there. He made the rounds, laundry rooms, janitor's closets, leaving as much chaos behind him as he could before he went for one of the fire alarms to set it off…then stopped.

The fire alarms were key-operated.

So much for that plan.

Well, then, force the issue. Frank detoured into the third floor men's room, and after making sure it was empty, he lit two carefully mixed wads of dry chemicals and paper towels and dropped them into the waste can there…and walked _fast_ to get out and a good distance away, near the central doors.

Three…two…

The explosion turned heads all over the floor — right as someone in charge evidently noticed the smoke and stink coming from the other rooms and fire alarms started clanging all over the building.

Chaos now ruled. Frank didn't care. He made it back to the stairs ahead of the exodus of panicking people and took the stairs two at a time, all the way to the top: start with top floor, search down as he followed the crowd out.

Slight miscalculation. People were rushing _down_ from the upper floors, and here he was, trying to get _up._

Best take charge. Work with it. Frank kept his voice calm and commanding. " _Move,_ people. Don't run. Head for the doors." He repeated that over and over, a calm, firm mantra, directing people even as he pushed past them and shoved the fifth floor door open.

It was raining.

The overhead sprinklers had gone off. That was odd. All the chaos so far was down on third floor, not up here…

No. Don't count on that. If Joe was free and running guerrilla tactics, great, but Frank would wait until they actually met up before he added Joe in to his plans beyond _grab him and get out_.

But despite the sprinklers, the alarms, and the people in the lobby running for the stairs, there didn't seem to be any movement from the ward doors on either side, neither the men's side nor the women's. The doors had electromagnetic locks, complete with a security keypad, which made the lack of people leaving even more ominous. Such locks had failsafes; if the power failed, the lock released so people could get out of a potentially dangerous building.

Well, now or never.

Making sure the ball cap was pulled low, Frank walked through the doors to the men's ward and paused. The sprinklers were still running, soaking everything in water; the air was thick with smoke and the smell of ozone and burning paper. Papers were strewn everywhere, and smoke and sparks were rising from computers at the nurses' desks, all of which were coated in fire-extinguisher foam. Orderlies were pushing gurneys with patients strapped to them further back into the corridors, away from the center doors; more orderlies and nurses were flex-cuffing patients together and herding them away as other staff stood guard.

Somewhere out of sight, around the corner, he could hear angry voices, both male and female; it sounded as if someone was being dressed down hard. Good — that meant additional chaos. Emotional and upset people were distracted people.

Striding through the ward and past the nurses' station as if he had an errand to run, Frank halted at the door of a laundry room, looking over the patients' faces. None were Joe. Had they moved him already? And where were they moving everyone to?

He had to act fast.

Before anyone noticed him, Frank slipped into the laundry room, opened the backpack — he still had over half of his supply left, and he needed a good-sized distraction so he could slip back through the ward in the confusion. Two of the remaining smoke bombs here, then find one of the bathrooms and use two more in the trash cans. Hopefully, that would be enough. If not, well, that was why he held the rest of the theoretical carnage in the backpack in reserve…

"Stop right there."

Frank froze, then tensed, about to round and hurl the pack at whoever that was —

"Drop the pack. _Drop it!"_

Abrams…and he had a gun.

Frank let the pack drop and slowly raised his hands.

"Move away from it," Abrams said. "Keep your hands above your head. Out of the room. Now."

No one could dodge a bullet, especially not at point-blank range. Swallowing hard, Frank stepped past the shelves and out into the hallway. Not just Abrams: Hammond stood there, along with orderlies, and none of them were smiling.

"Well, well," Abrams said. "So here's the real reason for the chaos. Search him," he snapped at the orderlies. "He's got something doing those shields."

"I told Dad where I was going," Frank said. Abrams still had the gun aimed at him. "He'll know something's up when I don't come back."

Neither man seemed to notice he'd spoken.

"Peter…" Hammond sighed, "…don't bother with this one. Fenton's already given us one boy, and we expected this one would try something like this. He's just a minnow. We can toss him back." Hammond looked at Frank. "Stunts like this won't bring your brother back."

Trying to keep his expression wooden, Frank only looked at him. Surely Hammond didn't think Frank would do all this if…if…Joe really was…

Then Hammond's words sunk in.

 _Given._

"Search him, I said," Abrams snapped at the orderlies, who were looking from Abrams to Hammond uncertainly. "You — go get Dr. Mannheim. No, Harry, Fenton knows his duty. He should've reined this one in." Now Abrams looked into Frank's face; the gun hadn't wavered. "If he managed all this, then he's no minnow."

Frank said nothing: best if they didn't know how much he'd found out. The orderlies stripped the scrubs and jacket from him, then twisted his arms behind him & cuffed him. They patted him down, thorough and professional, turning his jacket inside out and emptying his pockets.

Then Frank saw the insignia on one of their collars — dear God — _INSCOM?_ That was high-level military intelligence. Abrams was part of _that?_

"Sir." One handed Abrams the quartz crystal…and the scrap of paper.

Abrams studied it, mouth quirked. "So the minnow's a worm, after all." But then that studying gaze turned back on Frank…and Abrams frowned. "Still shielded. Maybe not so worm-y, then."

"Just let him go," Hammond said patiently. "We don't need him, and Fenton won't be useful to us at all if he loses both of his sons."

But Abrams's attention had turned to the scrap of paper; he'd turned it over, still frowning. "Well. Care to explain how he got this, Harry?"

Hammond shrugged. "How should I know?"

Abrams gazed at Hammond, who returned it without expression. "You two. Escort Harry here to the main office. Have Donna call for his ride back to the U.N. I advise you to return to Washington, Harry. It'd be best if you didn't come near this place again."

Hammond's gaze rested on Frank for a brief moment, but, still silent, Hammond only allowed his escort to lead him out.

"Around here, we have a use for worms, boy," Abrams said to Frank, then gestured at the orderlies. "And I doubt you'll survive the experience. Bring him."


	14. The Hiding Place

_A/N: muahahahah. (I seem to be saying that a lot lately.) Thanks to Caranath, Wendylouwho10, Leyapearl, LaurenHardy13, DuffyBarkley, the ever-anonymous Guest, Xenitha, Barb, & Paulina Ann for the comments & reviews!  
_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

 _Blood-smeared hands forced his mouth open, prodding, probing inside…_

Children giggled somewhere overhead, behind him, in front of him. Cold…he was so cold…

… _bound, gagged, Joe could only whimper as hands yanked his head back. He lay in something wet...sticky…blood…_

Cold poked his face; chill air patted his cheek. His side and back itched, irritation that burned through his skin.

" _So, tell me, my boy." The old voice, soft in Joe's ear. "Who goes first?"_

… _blood…so much blood…_

More whispering, right by Joe's face.

 _You gonna sleep all day, goop?_

Slowly Joe opened his eyes. He lay sprawled on the floor, face-down in thick dust and a pool of sunlight swirling with dust motes, the only sound a muffled, distant buzzing of lawn mowers. He felt sick, disoriented, his left leg numb from laying on the hard floor, with odd, convulsive cramps through his arms and legs. Shivering, gulping air, Joe lay there a long moment, trying to remember. Gradually, he focused on the floor and walls: chipped wood dark with old varnish, gray stone, garret windows, all covered in dust and cobwebs. The air smelled stale and musty, overlaid with mildew, cut grass, and smoke.

Something skittered across the floor nearby, then a shadow moved into his line of sight and filled his vision: someone peering into his eyes.

No face.

With a terrified yell, Joe lashed out with his fist, scrabbling back until he rammed into the wall, his arm raised to ward off that…that… _thing…_

Whatever it was squeaked and fled to huddle against the far wall, keening in whispery moans of acute distress.

 _You hurt Sarry! You hurt Sarry!_ Another shadow flung itself at Joe in mad fury, pummeling him — or trying —

Memory returned with a rush. Mattie…Sarah…

Cold chills passed through his arms and chest where Mattie struck — Joe couldn't lay hold of her. Closing his eyes, he fell back against the wall, managed to focus enough to bring up a shield and _shoved_.

It bumped the child in the face. With a howl, Mattie scrambled back to the corner and grabbed the other shadow's hand.

 _We won't help you! We won't!_

"No — wait — _please!"_ Joe reached out, and both…hallucinations…ghosts…

… _children…_

…stopped.

 _You hurt Sarry! You're mean! You're evil! Just like them! Just like them!_

Dizzy, Joe swayed, but caught himself on his hands before he went face-first into the thick dust, gasping when the numbness in his left leg ramped up to agonizing pins-and-needles as feeling and blood returned. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ He could hear Kris's lecture, if she ever found out. These…these…children…didn't need his fear and panic on top of whatever had happened to them. The stone walls swaying around him, Breathing deep and slow, Joe waited the dizziness and pain out, then crawled towards the children…and held his hand out to Sarah.

His left hand, twisted and scarred from New Orleans.

Whimpering, Sarah only cringed back behind Mattie.

"I'm sorry, Sarry," Joe said quietly. "I'm really, really sorry. You startled me, honey, that's all — I was having a nightmare."

Swinging her head back and forth, Sarah cringed even further back.

"That's a really pretty name," Joe said, slow, soothing. His muscles still cramped at odd moments, aching, twitchy, and restless. "Sarah, I mean. It means _daughter of the king._ Did you know that? That's what you are, Sarry. A brave little princess."

 _You don't know what Matilda means, I'll bet._ Mattie was glaring, her chin thrust out, hands balled into fists.

Joe smiled, just a little. "You're right, I don't. I only know _Sarah_ because of the Bible. But Matilda's a pretty name, too." He had no idea why he was hearing these two. He had the Sight, but spirit-talking wasn't a Gift he had, as far as he knew. An effect of the drugs…or it was all a hallucination and he was still strapped to that gurney, his brain ground to mush and drugged so far out of his mind that there was no coming back.

Mattie still looked suspicious. _Papa called Sarry his princess._ _He said I was his little fighter._

"Well, yeah, your Papa would be proud of you, going after a big mean grown-up like me." Breathing out, Joe let himself relax, rubbing at his arms to still the cramping; his left arm was sore and tender, with a deep-black bruise centered on the spot where the IV had been. "What happened to him?"

 _He died._

Joe looked away. "My…my mom died, too, when I was your age. I'm sorry, Sarry. I was mean and stupid. Can we be friends again? Please?"

From behind Matty, Sarah peeped out, then, hesitantly, reached to touch Joe's hand — her hand was twisted and covered in wrinkled, waxy burn-scars — then she jerked away with a gasp.

 _Hand like mine!_

"Yes, Sarry," Joe whispered. "My hand's like yours." Looking at her directly for the first time, at that faint, transparent form — there _was_ a face there, deformed and lopsided like melted wax, with deep, shadowed hollows where the eyes would be, just like Mattie's. What was left of Sarah's hair was dark and matted, cropped short in places to show a scalp covered in scabs and scars, her body deformed, forcing her to crawl crablike along the ground. "A bad man hurt me a lot, Sarry. Did someone hurt you, too?"

Trembling, Sarah huddled against Mattie.

Mattie shuffled her feet. _She was crying and they were hurting her and I hit them but they just laughed. Then they tried to hurt me but I ran. I hid up here._ The words tumbled out in a whispery rush.

God. Joe wanted to gather these children into his arms and give them all the hugs they'd likely never gotten in life. "Who did, Mattie? The people here now?"

Staring at her feet, Mattie shook her head. _Before._

Ghosts didn't have much sense of time, according to Kris. _Before_ could mean anything. The bedgowns they wore didn't look at all like hospital gowns — turn of the century, maybe? Before World War One?

 _I didn't do anything._ _I was scared and I ran away._ _They hurt Sarry because I ran!_

"You're just a kid, Mattie," Joe said softly. If he ever found out where those long-ago people were buried, he would dig them up and grind their bones for cat litter. "It's not your fault. The bad people hurt Sarry, not you."

 _But because of me —_

" _Mattie._ Sarah's here, right? You think she'd stay with you if it was your fault?"

 _Not hurt._ Sarah pawed at Mattie's gown. _Love Mattie. Sarry love Mattie!_

"See?" Joe said; Mattie still looked at her feet, but now her hand gripped Sarah's. "Sarry's smart. She knows who really hurt her. It wasn't you." Mattie's face was scrunched like she was about to cry; best to change the subject. "You hid up here?"

Mattie nodded. _Over there. They said there's ghosts so the goops were too scared to look up here but I never saw no ghosts._ _Then Sarry found me and no one could see us but they wouldn't let us leave._

Curiosity was a strong draw. Nothing had touched him but these two little ghosts, not even the magic of the searchers who had to be looking for him…but even through the drugs, Joe felt shaky, with those twitching cramps convulsing through him at odd moments. Something weird was going on. Carefully, balancing against the walls and boxes, Joe got to his feet and staggered over to where Mattie had pointed: ancient cargo trunks with cracked, peeling leather and rusted metal bindings, wooden and cardboard boxes, old chairs, rotted cushions, all of it coated in thick dust and cobwebs.

Behind it all, tucked in a small cramped space between the trunks…

Joe sagged against the old trunks. A small body — little more than bones — in a rotted, tattered bedgown lay curled there; strands of red hair still clung to that fragile skull. He could just make out a faded ink-stamp on the remains of the gown: _East River Asylum for the Insane And Indigent._

 _You look funny._ Mattie hadn't moved. _Like Papa before he died._

"I'm sad," Joe whispered, unable to take his eyes from those small, pathetic bones. "Sad for you and Sarah. What about your mom?"

 _She left us here._

That answered one question, anyway. Ghosts hung around because of either emotional or physical connections, connections that easily became traps if the circumstances were overwhelming. Here was Mattie's physical connection — along with too many emotional ones for any child to deal with. Joe checked around the stacks and junk: no other body. "Where's Sarry?"

Sarah whimpered; Mattie gave Joe one of those _you-stupid-grown-up_ looks. _She's right here, goop._

"I don't mean _really_ Sarah, Mattie. I mean…well…like this." Joe nodded at the bones. "Did they bury her?"

 _Sarry's right here!_

Oh no. "Mattie…do you see the bones here?"

 _Ain't nothin' but junk._

Rubbing at his cramping arms again and hissing in pain at the bruise on his left arm, Joe breathed out, wishing Kris was here. She knew how to deal with this kind of thing; she could _step out_ , could help these children go wherever spirits were supposed to go. He was just magical muscle to watch her back. He'd seen the spirits she'd helped — he'd even touched them — but he'd never talked to them.

"And while I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony," Joe muttered.

 _What?_

"Nothing. Just talking to God, I mean."

 _God don't care 'bout me and Sarry._ _He don't care nothin' 'bout nobody, an' I don't care nothin' 'bout Him, neither._

Somewhere through his drug-fogged memory, Joe vaguely remembered encountering Samedi — Death — and He — _She_ — had acted as if God certainly existed. Why hadn't Death helped these two? Why had they been left here? Why were _any_ of them left behind and forgotten…?

Then again, Thatcher had done something like this. He'd trapped souls in that warehouse and prevented Samedi from taking them.

And this hospital had CIA Gifted working with it.

Settling back, Joe let his eyes relax, his hands spread against the floorboards. There — thick, sticky energy covered the walls and floor, magic that felt of blood and death. Joe shuddered, closing his eyes to cut off the sight. So the garret was warded, somehow, someway. Mattie claimed no one ever found them here. The hospital didn't even seem aware of this space, judging from the dust, nor had Joe felt any searchers. Had someone used these children to set up a hiding place?

Though Sarah's body wasn't here, and Mattie had said she'd run away…so…was there another place like this somewhere around here?

Another odd thing: the magic felt _old._ Too old to be Hammond, or Abrams, or anyone here. That was somewhat of a relief: despite everything, Joe really hadn't wanted to believe that Hammond would've done this to a couple children, not when the man was a father, too.

 _You look funny again._

Joe took a deep breath. "Mattie…Sarry…what do you see when you look outside?"

Mattie scowled. _Ain't no outside._

Maybe she hadn't understood. "When you look out the window, I mean." Joe nodded towards the garret windows. "What do you see?"

 _Nothin'._

"What about when you go through the walls?" Joe tapped the wall he sat against. "Like this one. The outside walls."

 _Ain't no outside. They won't let us leave._

 _You warm. You fire. Light._ Sarah had crept closer, to huddle against Joe's side.

Take this slow. He'd promised to help them. If he delayed long enough up here, Abrams and Hammond might think Joe had escaped somehow, and he could sneak out. "Sarry…I'm sorry, honey…but did those men…the ones who hurt you…was that up here?"

 _Why you askin' so many questions, goop?_

"I'm a detective, Mattie. I have to know what happened before I can help you."

 _You a hawkshaw?_ Mattie sounded surprised. _A goopy hawkshaw goop?_

 _Goopy goop!_ Sarah giggled, whispery sing-song. _Goopy goop! Goopy goop!_

Joe smiled. "Silly Sarry. Yes, I'm a goopy goop." Whatever that meant, though _hawkshaw_ was old slang for _detective:_ that placed them about turn of the century, then _._ "But I still need to know. Please, Mattie?"

 _Goopy goop! Goopy goop!_

 _Not here._ Mattie scuffed at the dust. _In the dark place. Below the stairs._

"The dark place." As a child, the basement at home had scared Joe witless, all the shadows and damp stone and cobwebs, until Dad remodeled it and let the brothers use it for their lab. "You mean the basement?"

 _Goop. I said that!_

Had he ever been this stubborn as a kid? Joe sighed, rubbing at his arms again; the cramps weren't letting up, the aching in his left arm was getting worse, and he still felt fogged and woozy with the drugs. "Yeah, you did. Sorry."

If he could get out — they wouldn't expect him to come back and search the basement. Getting out first, though, that was the problem. Joe eased over to one of the windows and gauged the distance to the ground. Too far to jump. He'd break a leg, at least, and then he'd be worse off. The roof and gables looked too steep for him to manage, and he wouldn't trust any rope he found up here. Assuming he could even get the windows open, for that matter: they were painted shut and likely sealed with rust and age on top of that.

Only way out was through, then.

 _Why you lookin' at that?_ _Just an old window._

"I'm looking outside." The window overlooked the back: trees, picnic tables, brick walks, people strolling. Almost normal, if you ignored the stone walls topped by iron-spiked fencing. They'd be expecting him to go for the front doors. If he got out the back instead, he should be able to get over that wall, even with his bad legs. "All the trees and everything."

 _You're off your chump. Ain't nothin' out there._

"It's what I see, Mattie. Everything's out there. The trees, flowers — there's lots of asters right below us. They're mowing the grass and the sun's out —"

 _You're lyin'!_

"Why would I lie? Didn't you ever play outside in the sun?"

Sarah had crept up next to him, her hands splayed against window. _Sun?_

 _I can't see no sun._ Mattie kicked at one of the trunks, a small continual _thump-thump._ _Ain't no sun no more. Goopy chumpy hawkshaw tryin' to trick us._

Joe looked out over the grounds, the city, the streets. From the shadows of the trees, it was late afternoon. "Well, no, you can't see the sun from here. It's behind the buildings, that's all. You've been in here so long, Mattie…you ran away and hid from the bad men, but now you're trapped here. Just like they wanted."

 _Liar!_

 _I remember sun._ Sarah had huddled against Joe again. _You see sun?_

That small, deformed face, matted hair covering the wounded eyes and scarred scalp, the twisted body, the crippled hands, all of it hurting and being hurt forever with no hope, no light, no reprieve. No love. Joe nodded…then held both his hands out.

Hesitating, Sarah touched his hands with a single finger — only a slight pressure and a chill — but when Joe held his hands steady, Sarah laid her hands fully in his. Coolness covered his palms, transparent, small, crippled hands dwarfed by his own.

 _Warm. Warm like sun._

"Yes," Joe whispered. "Warm."

 _Want sun!_

"It's out there, Sarah. It's not in here. It'll never be in here."

Mattie turned on him, her face contorted and baring teeth. _Stop lying to my sister!_

"I'm not lying, Mattie." Muffling a groan, Joe pushed to his feet and eased over to the cramped, narrow stairs. Dizziness and vertigo made him sag against the wall, panting. "And I can't stay here." He couldn't hear any noise down there, but then, if the searchers were smart, they'd stay quiet.

 _You can't leave! They'll catch you!_

"I'm not going to stay here and become your playmate, Mattie." Joe looked at Sarah, who'd followed him. "I want the sun."

A hiss of breath — probably just his imagination. They were dead, after all.

Maybe that was it, after all. The drugs had melted his brain, they'd done the lobotomy, it'd destroyed whatever remained of his sanity, and he was hallucinating all this. He'd finally cracked: him, Joe Hardy, talking to two long-dead ghosts in a musty, forgotten attic — his brother dead at a madman's hands, his father given up and given over, Joe tossed aside and thrown away. No one wanted. No one cared. The past was gone. It'd never existed, and he was alone. Alone and dying in the dark…

His hands touched his side, the itchy scabs of the healing tattoo, its faint pulse of magic, the colors glowing, golden, and warm, just like the woman who'd designed it, the woman who loved him and he loved her. Jamie. _Jamie._

" _Suppose this black pit of a kingdom is the only world,"_ Joe whispered, eyes closed, the words of that old kids' book coming from deep in his memory, unbidden. _"It strikes me as a pretty poor one. Maybe I made up the trees and the sun, but my made-up things are a lot more important than your real ones."*_

 _That's just a story. It ain't real!_

They knew the Narnia books? But those hadn't been until after World War Two. Joe shrugged. "You can stay here if you want, Mattie. You and Sarry have helped me a lot already. But you said you wanted to leave. You can't leave by staying here."

 _Leave._ Sarah tugged at his jeans, a real, physical tug. _With! With!_

Joe touched her head — only a chill of air, but he imagined he could feel her coarse, matted hair under his palms.

 _You know lion story!_

Joe looked down at Sarah's small, wounded face. "How do you know it, Sarry?"

 _The nice lady reads it._ Mattie scuffed at the dust. _She reads it to the chumpy goops and lets us listen. The witch and the ship and the snake._

"Well, okay, maybe it's not real," Joe said, wondering what _chumpy goops_ were. "But I'll take Aslan over this place any day."

Sarah slipped her hand into his, a slight, cool presence. _Me too._

Hand…something occurred to him, something important, then inspiration hit. Connections — magic was all about connections. "Stay here a moment, honey," Joe murmured, then staggered back to the stacks of junk and those sad, pathetic bones. The remains of the gown looked too fragile, but a moment's searching found old silk handkerchiefs in one of the boxes. Joe knelt by the bones — fragile and brittle with age — and gently, carefully, wrapped the finger bones in the cloth and tucked them into his jeans pocket. Maybe if he had a chance, he could come back and give Mattie a true burial. But for now, this had to do.

 _What are you doin'? That tickles._

Joe couldn't help a smile. "I'm holding your hand, Mattie."

 _You're talkin' off your chump again, goop._

"Well, you'll see." Joe eased back to the stairs, using the wall for balance. Hopefully whatever magic was up here extended to all the noise he was making, or someone would be wondering what was up with the ceiling.

Sarah touched the pocket with Mattie's bones. _You go dark place._

"Yes, Sarry," Joe said, as Mattie moved to take Sarah's hand again; the expression on Mattie's face reminded him of Frank whenever the brothers had faced down bullies in school. "I have to. I promised to help you, and I will. It's a magic thing, like what you can do. C'mon."

The aching cramps and dizziness hadn't let up, the bruise on his left arm had grown noticeably bigger, but his head felt somewhat clear. Joe took a moment to check his shields — thin, but there — then slowly eased down the narrow stairs, one at a time, feeling his way and pressing up against the dusty wall to keep his balance.

At the bottom and the panel leading back out to the laundry room, Joe paused, listened. Nothing out in the room that he could hear.

"Mattie?" Joe whispered. "Let's play Injun-scout. Pretend like you're an Indian and those people out there are all mean gunslinging cowboys. Sneak out and see where they're all at." Hopefully these two knew about Cowboys-and-Indians.

To Joe's surprise, Mattie's face lit in a sudden impish grin; she nodded and slipped through the panel.

Sarah tugged at his jeans again. _I play Injun!_

Some things hadn't changed from back-then to now, at least. "You're playing, too, Sarry. You're the brave Injun warrior protecting your chief, okay?"

 _Goopy goop!_ Sarah giggled, holding up her hand. _How!_

Joe choked on a laugh. Thank God Mar wasn't around to hear this. _"_ _Nízhóní_ _,"_ Joe whispered back. "That's Injun for 'you're beautiful'. And you are, Sarry, both you and Mattie."

Mattie slipped back in. _Nuthin'. They're all locked up in the big room and the bad men're doin' devil stuff in the quiet room._

The big room had to be the day room. But…locked up? Devil stuff? Biting his lip, Joe cracked the panel open, just enough to peer out. Still nothing. Probably safe enough to slip into the laundry room, and he should be able to get out the doors again before they realized he was still in the ward.

He squeezed through the panel and out from behind the shelving — fire alarms suddenly rang through the space, drowning out any other noise, though the sprinklers were no longer running. So whoever had done the garret magic must have spelled a heavy silence into it, too, then…and with the fire alarms sounding, no one would notice whatever noise Joe made in here.

Hopefully the fire hadn't spread far enough to cut off his escape.

Using a nearby laundry-cart for balance, Joe levered himself back to his feet. Phase one, accomplished. Now, get to the ward doors —

— as white-hot _agony_ seared across his chest…

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 _* Paraphrased from "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Silver Chair", by C.S. Lewis_


	15. Refusal

_A/N: Almost forgot what day it was! Thanks to AlecTowser, Caranath, MoonlightGypsy, Xenitha, SunshineInTheGraySky, Barb, Wndylouwho10, Paulina Ann, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments!  
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Leta walked into chaos.

Doctor Lo stood outside 10-Genesis, his stance impatient. Inside the procedure room, Abrams and two orderlies were struggling to subdue a young man — and with a shock, Leta recognized him.

"The brother of Subject 214," Lo said. "He infiltrated the facility — Abrams caught him in the laundry room. He somehow broke the flex-cuffs as they were bringing him here. Can you handle him?"

Frowning, Leta reached out mentally and was blocked, solid. "He's shielded. But he's not supposed to be Gifted."

"That's what Abrams wants to find out," Lo said. "Among other things."

Finally the orderlies got control — they slammed the young man back onto the examination chair, stunning him and holding him down as Abrams tightened the restraints and bound the young man to the chair.

"Get an IV set up," Lo said to the orderlies as he came over. "Diacetylmorphine. Half dosage to start."

Frowning, Abrams said nothing for a long moment as he studied the young man; Abrams grabbed him by the chin and forcibly turned his head to stare into the eyes, despite the young man's attempts to bite. Then, slowly, Abrams smiled. "Don't waste the IV, Doctor. Just a thiopental injection. Full dosage." A slight pause. "I doubt he'll last for more than that."

"But Leta said he's shielded —"

"They're not his. They're set into his solar plexus and heart centers and mixed with his brother's signature. Very clever. Maybe we'll hold off on the processing until we find out how they did this." Abrams nodded at the orderlies, who took up stations on either side of the door as Lo left. "Leta?"

"So young," Leta murmured, coming over.

His jaw clenched, the young man only glared back at her. Same gold-brown hair as his brother, though a few shades darker, and built muscular rather than lean. Piercing blue eyes. Oh, yes. That one detail that always made it through in those nightmares.

Leta laid her physical hand against his face as she carefully felt out those shields; they had a fluid, organic feel, unlike any set-spell or pre-set she'd ever encountered. Until they were down, she'd have to rely on words. "That's the one nightmare your brother had. Did you know that? You, dead, from that madman in New Orleans…"

"Yeah," the young man snarled, "I'm sure you know all about nightmares. Let me guess, you're an Empath. And you're actually working for these people?"

Leta ignored that. "It'd be a shame for those nightmares to become reality. Hasn't your father suffered enough?" Interesting: she wasn't picking up much from this one. Usually she could at least get emotions and strong thoughts leaking through shields; shields were meant to keep people out, after all, not hold them in. Here though…the anger on his face was plain enough, but she couldn't pick up the matching feelings.

"What, you mean Dad doesn't know about this?"

Finally, a strong pulse of relief — so he suspected the father had betrayed them, then? Any Empath worth the Gift knew how to use that. "He doesn't want to lose you, too." Gentle, calm, motherly, just as she had for Subject 214 — it would keep him further off-balance. "Losing one son was hard enough on him."

"Spare me." The young man gasped as one of the orderlies forced his head back and secured the chin straps to keep the neck exposed. The next words ground out from clenched teeth. "Your buddy Abrams there just said Joe's alive. And there's others who know where I'm at."

"Ah, yes." Arms crossed, Abrams leaned against the wall; one of the orderlies took up a station near the door, gaze firmly on the opposite wall. "Your precious Association. Funny, I don't see them with you. That eager to get rid of you, are they?"

"You're the one who kills your people," the young man said. "Or are you really going to tell me someone _volunteered_ to be the body you showed us?"

Abrams smiled. "That was another little worm. Your Association didn't see fit to rescue him, either. Pity."

The young man stared at the ceiling.

"Ever hear of thiopental?" Abrams sounded casual, just everyday small-talk.

"One of the so-called truth serums." The young man sounded calm enough, but Leta caught the slight trembling. "And that it doesn't work."

"Depends what it's supposed to work _for,"_ Abrams said. "Because one of the things it does do is increase one's susceptibility. To magic…and other things."

The second orderly brought in a tray of surgical instruments and set it into the stand by the chair: gleaming scalpels, forceps, clamps, retractors, bone cutters. The young man glanced, then his jaw clenched, his breathing quickened, his throat pulsing as he swallowed again and again.

Leta kept her hand on the young man's face. "Is this really necessary, Abrams?"

No pity, only a question of efficiency. Those with pity didn't last long in this facility. But torture rarely provided accurate information, after all, and Abrams knew that as well as she did.

Abrams raised an eyebrow. He wasn't any kind of telepath, but his thought was as clear as if he'd spoken aloud: _It is if we want to find the other one._

Leta looked away. Neither she nor Abrams had been able to find Subject 214 and the drugs should've ensured the subject's inability to use his Gift. Whatever the subject was doing that enabled him to overcome those limitations and hide so completely was something the US Government desperately needed to know.

And if they couldn't obtain it, it had to be destroyed before it fell into…other…hands.

Leta understood that. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

With a curt nod, Abrams walked over past the procedure gurney. "Well. Your brother did a nice job on those shields, Frank. But he overlooked a few things." Abrams wheeled the ECT machine over and plugged the electrodes in. "I'm assuming you know about the Law of Association."

The young man's gaze returned to the ceiling. "You'd be surprised at what I know."

"This isn't a James Bond movie, boy. Spare us the stiff-upper-lip heroics. Know what this is?"

The young man's glance flickered.

"Normally you'd be given anesthetic." Casual, off-hand, no-big-deal. Abrams affixed the electrode pads to the left side of the young man's head. "Something to relax your muscles so you don't break bones. But we'll dispense with those pleasantries today. Still haven't guessed?"

Still no response.

"It's an ECT machine," Leta said, and felt the young man's sudden jump of fear. "Electroshock."

"Someone's seen that movie, I see." Frowning in concentration, Abrams stared for a moment at his own hand, then, slowly, stroked the air an inch or so above the young man's chest and head. "Most folks don't remember the experience — your brother certainly didn't — but placing the electrodes on the same side alleviates the memory loss. Leta, stand clear, please. We don't want to electrocute you by mistake."

"I thought you were going to drug me." Tight, controlled voice, clenched hands, arms straining against the leather straps.

"Oh, we will. But electricity is enough like magic for this little experiment." Abrams's hand rested on the switch. "Shall we begin?"

A sharp, plastic click…

Then Abrams was staring at the ECT machine…and, unexpectedly, the young man started laughing.

"Leta, find Lo," Abrams snapped. "We need that thiopental. And tell him to get scopolamine, too, full dose, as a backup."

"Your little toys won't work," the young man taunted. "My brother outsmarted you. Even I can see his signature all through that thing, but you didn't even think to check."

Leta paused at the door. He _was_ Gifted, then? But…

"You're a fast thinker," Abrams said to him. "Good try, bluffing with no cards in your hand. You're not Gifted, Frank. Both I and Doctor Manheim here can tell. You can drop that masquerade."

"You don't know as much as you think you do. Because I'm here and Joe's not, and you don't have a clue where he is. He got away from you. And you don't know how."

"Yes, you are here," Abrams picked up one of the scalpels, "and your brother soon will be. You never did answer me, you know. About the Law of Association."

The young man's gaze had riveted on that scalpel.

"It doesn't matter, really," Abrams said, as Leta hurried away to get the drugs from Doctor Lo. "You're about to get a good, sharp lesson in it…"

—

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—

Harry didn't resist, didn't even try to talk to his escort as they walked him down to the administrator's office on the ground floor. He didn't have to. They had their orders. Overriding them would potentially get them caught in the cross-fire, and Harry was not minded to waste manpower unless there was no other choice.

A shame that he hadn't been able to convince certain agency people of that.

The hospital administrator, Donna, had been out to lunch; the INSCOM men left Harry in her office's waiting area and took up stations outside the door. Pulling out yet another cigarette — his second pack today, and he was supposed to have quit months ago — Harry sat, thinking.

Orders or duty. Duty or morality. Every agent faced those choices multiple times in their careers, often during the same assignment. Every agent learned the hard truth of necessity. One had to, or one didn't survive…or worse.

And when one necessity conflicted with another…

No, Harry did not like waste, not of manpower, not of talent, definitely not of intelligence. Fenton was too useful; crippling him with the loss of both sons would effectively ruin other current and future key intelligence operations — and that was assuming Abrams's deception held. Harry knew Fenton Hardy. Abrams and his associates would be in for a painful lesson in the costs of underestimating one's target when their deception failed.

When, not if. Of that, Harry was certain.

Another shame, that Harry hadn't been able to convince certain people of that, either. Well, life was a lesson.

Too bad that Fenton's older son hadn't yet learned how to effectively bluff — but having figured out, tracked down, and infiltrated this far before getting caught spoke of the same high intelligence as his father. Harry had counted on that when he'd dropped the scrap of medical record. And the young man would learn — Harry was sure of that, too. It'd only been bad luck, really, that Abrams had caught the breach of the internal wards amidst the chaos.

A shame that both brothers had been co-opted by the Association, but that could be worked around, eventually.

If they had the chance.

A real shame that Abrams had never bothered to find out just who Harry actually worked for…

With a sigh, Harry keyed the override code on the office door's security pad, entered the admin's office, picked up the phone, dialed, waited. "Hammond speaking. Get me Alan Kline. Now."


	16. Contagion

_A/N: I can always tell when I've hit the "good" part of my stories, because I wake up the morning after a chapter-post to a flood of email notices. ;) Anyway, thanks to Leyapearl, Caranath, SunshineInTheGraySky, DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, Wendylouwho10, & AlecTowser for the reviews & comments!  
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 _Joe! Joe!_

Joe lay crumpled against a mound of soaked laundry as fire alarms continued to sound. Panting, he pushed up to sit. What…

It struck again, a burning, jagged blade ripping across his chest — jaw clenched against a scream, Joe collapsed onto his elbows…

… _hands hauled him up; jagged metal ripped across his blistered raw skin as a scream choked through his raw throat…_

No — _no._ He was _here._ _Here._ Wet cloth, water puddles, itchy soaked clothes, fire alarms, no lights, metal shelving…teeth gritted, Joe forced himself back up.

Two worried shadow-faces peered into his, and Joe barely clenched back his yelp and instinctive lash-out — Sarah. Mattie. Right. Don't freak out the friendly ghosts.

 _Hurt._ Sarah laid her hand on Joe's chest, a spot of chill on his sternum. _Bad men hurt._

Closing his eyes, Joe tried to focus and pull more energy into his shields; the effort left him gasping and dizzy, the walls and ceiling swaying around him. Whatever this attack was, he had to fend it off. He couldn't get out if…

Wait. How could they target him if they couldn't see him and didn't know where he was? They wouldn't attack the whole hospital area. That'd nail their own people and a lot of innocent bystanders. And things like toenails and hair clippings couldn't channel attacks that strong, could they?

Gulping air, Joe settled back against the shelving and relaxed his eyes. The aching cramps made his limbs jerk and twitch restlessly; he couldn't hold still. He caught a flash of foxfire right at his solar plexus and heart centers…but that wasn't his shields, that was his line to Frank's protections —

Oh God, they'd completely _bypassed_ his shields!

Another strike flared through that connection; blood-red agony blazed up in a shockwave that collapsed Joe back against the floor.

"Frank," Joe breathed, through clenched teeth. Frank must've tried to infiltrate the place anyway and gotten caught. Swearing, Joe shoved himself back up. If they survived this, Frank would be on litter box duty for the next _century._

 _Are those bad words?_ Mattie didn't sound shocked, just interested. _They sound like bad words._

Great. He was teaching ghost children how to swear. "Yeah, well, I'm thinking a lot worse, believe me." Joe took a couple deep breaths, then, using the shelves for balance, levered himself to his feet. He had to stay calm. Freaking out in front of Mattie and Sarah wouldn't do any good. "My brother. They're hurting him — they're hurting him to get me."

 _Oh…_ Mattie clasped her hands over her mouth. _They did that, too. They…they hurt me to make Sarry do the devil stuff…_

"Mattie…" Joe knelt to look her in the face. "What Sarry can do — it's not devil stuff. Sarry's not evil, you know that."

Clutching Sarah's hand, Mattie nodded.

Joe had to stop, breathing hard as yet another burst of agony ripped across his chest. "Bad people always make good things seem bad. But you and Sarry are sisters and that's _good_ and you're good and Sarry's good and no magic in the world can ever change that _._ "

 _Not devil._ Sarah sounded stubborn. _Goopy_ _goop light! Fire!_

 _But now they're doing it to you._ Mattie looked up, her chin thrust out. _Because you can do Sarry's stuff, too._

Nodding, Joe pushed back to his feet, swayed as the agony struck again, waited it had to think — planning was Frank's strong point, not his, and right now Joe was short on resources, energy, and ideas, and nauseous and light-headed from the drugs. He didn't even know where they were holding Frank. Joe couldn't sense direction through the line to the shields, and the drugs made it worse.

The only thing Joe was sure about was that he didn't want these children hurt any more. They'd been through too much already. God only knew what Abrams and Hammond would be able to do to them.

Not like Joe had much choice.

He looked around the laundry room, hoping for something he could use, something to give him an edge, anything — and paused. A khaki backpack lay in one of the other heaps, an "I Heart Big Apple" patch sewn onto the top flap. Odd…it hadn't been there when he'd come in…

Though with all the drugs, he was lucky to remember his own name at this point.

Inside it: bundles of aluminum-foil wrapped objects with strips of paper towels poking out, pop cans, a really ugly sweatshirt covered with that garish _I Heart Big Apple_ design…then the smell hit, making him sneeze: bleach, ammonia, other chemicals.

Both children peered over his arms and into the backpack.

 _What's all that stinky stuff?_ Mattie poked at the bag.

They could smell? Interesting…but then Joe stared at the foil things. The smell…the shape…something in the back of his memory nudged him, then his drugged brain made the connection — and Joe started grinning, savagely. "Stuff that just got my brother out of a decade of litter box cleaning. C'mon."

Jaw clenched against a surge of dizziness and nausea, Joe eased towards the door, peered out. No one immediately outside it, the fire alarms still sounding, and now Joe smelled thick smoke, something that _stunk_ to high heaven — then gripped the wall as another wave of agony spiked through his chest. Frank must've _really_ annoyed these folks.

 _Stinks!_ Sarah's face scrunched up.

"Yeah, brothers do that," Joe murmured. "It's a boy thing, Sarry. Stay close. Don't let anyone see you."

 _You're supposed to be holding our hands, goop._

Despite everything, Joe smiled and patted his pocket…and Mattie gasped, staring at her hand.

 _I felt that!_

"It's magic, Mattie. The good stuff. C'mon."

Wisps of smoke curled over the floor, and the smoke stink was stronger. But which way? The near corridor at-hand led back to the doors marked _"Genesis 510-545 Secure Processing"_ , towards that room where they were going to turn Joe's brain to mush — Joe did not want to go anywhere near that. But once out the laundry door and in the open ward area around the nurses' station…

Dr. Lo was rummaging through one of the tall locked cabinets, then picked up a small bottle and a sterile packet holding a hypodermic.

Alarms going off, smoke everywhere, everyone else panicking, and the man was getting drugs…?

 _Bad,_ Sarah growled. _Hurt Johnny. Hurt you. Bad!_

Not that he needed additional prompting. Joe grabbed the first foil-wrapped thing he touched out of the backpack, focused _hard_ on the paper towel poking out of the foil…then threw it at Lo.

Luckily his aim was off.

It exploded mid-air a couple yards away from Lo, a bright flash of fire that sent pop-can shards slicing through the ward and filled the air with stinking, pungent smoke. Yelling, arms up to cover his face, Lo staggered back as Joe hit the floor —dear _God,_ Frank had made actual _bombs?_

"Like before, Sarry," Joe breathed. _"Get him."_

…and that _something_ reached inside him again and _yanked…_

Lo had spotted Joe and backed up, yelling for the orderlies — but then Lo's eyes widened, his voice choked off, arms raised as Sarah rushed him —

 _BOO! BOO!_

Struggling to his feet, Joe only saw a large, horrifying blur, but he didn't care, and it didn't take any kind of balance or magic to lunge across the space. Dropping the pack, Joe tackled Lo and bore him down. The doctor hit the floor with a hard crunch and a sickening crack, then Joe grabbed Lo by the shirtfront and hauled him up to within inches of Joe's face, heedless of the choking smoke, alarms, and fire.

"Where's my brother?" Joe snarled.

Lo's head had cracked against the corner of a desk; blood covered his face. He stared at something just past Joe's shoulder, gasping like a fish. _"Jiangshi…jiangshi…"_

" _Where!?"_

" _Sarah! Matilda!"_

Both Sarah and Mattie gasped. Startled, Joe let go of Lo's shirt — Lo hit the floor and scrabbled back and away, huddling under the nearby desk-counter and moaning in terror — and turned.

Hands on her hips, Leta stood there, glaring at the children. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. You know better. Go back to your room, both of you!"

"You bitch," Joe breathed, using the desk to lever himself to his feet, careful to keep Lo in sight. Dizziness made his head swim, as another sharp burst of agony sliced across his chest. "You're the one holding them here —"

"Joseph…"

"— leave them alone." Keep her distracted. The backpack was right behind her. If Joe could just get a couple seconds to focus…just a spark would set the whole pack ablaze. "Let them go or I'll —"

" _Joseph,"_ Leta overrode him. "You're raving again."

 _Don't hurt her!_ Mattie tugged at Joe's arm, sending chills through his skin. _She's the nice lady! She reads to us!_

Oh God, no, he did not need this right now…

"I don't know what's keeping them here," Leta said, "but they know the rules. Sarah, Matilda, you heard me."

 _No!_ Sarah huddled behind Joe. _Joe fire! Light! Help!_

"Joe is sick, Sarah," Leta crouched down to Sarah and Mattie's level. "He doesn't know what he's saying. What's he been telling you?"

"The truth." Pressure ached right behind Joe's eyes, dizzy nausea that threatened to spike into migraine. He had to get past Leta, had to take her down, but he didn't want to hurt her, not with Sarah and Mattie calling her _the nice lady_ — not after Sarah's displays of Gift. "My brother isn't dead. The magic you're running proves it —"

"This is another of your psychotic breaks, Joseph." Calm, reasonable, mother-to-upset-child. "You're only drawing these poor children into your delusion. You need to calm down. We have to take care of your arm — that bruise looks like you broke off the IV catheter."

The huge black-and-purple bruise now covered most of Joe's sore forearm. But dizziness made him sway again, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, gritting his teeth as the movement jarred his arm. "Don't you dare tell me I'm hallucinating Sarry and Mattie," Joe snarled; whimpering, Sarah hid behind him, but Mattie stood in front of him, her fists balled up as if to block Leta from him. "Not when you're talking to them, too."

"You're not." Still calm. Motherly. "That's one of your Gifts. But right now, they're not helping you. You have to stay focused on _this_ world, so you can get better."

"Yeah, right, giving me a lobotomy is really _helping_ me!"

"No one has done anything like that to you."

"You'd better talk to Abrams, because that's exactly what he was going to do." It was hard to think, hard to focus, impossible to concentrate past the pressure and dizzy light-headedness. The room was swaying again…

"Paranoia and delusions are part of the fugue state," Leta said gently. "That's your sickness talking. It's not real. Doctor Abrams has been trying to teach you control of your Gifts, that's all."

 _Liar!_ _Stinky wanted to hurt Joe like they hurt Sarry!_

At that, Joe looked down at Mattie. "Stinky?"

 _The bad man in the devil room. He stinks!_

"Be still, Matilda," Leta said sternly. "You're seeing things through Joe's Gift, that's all. His mind is sick."

 _Booshwash!_

" _Matilda…"_

 _Joe not sick,_ Sarah whispered. _Joe fire. Light — oh!_

Something sharp jabbed into Joe's hip, and Joe jerked away, staggered, fell against the desk…as Doctor Lo backed off, still holding the hypodermic.

In that moment of shock, Joe's shields cracked.

… _light blazed down on him, stark fluorescents swinging on chains in the old warehouse. No shadows to soften the blow. No darkness to hide what was coming…_

 _Discarded as so much trash, Frank lay near the drain in the floor, his lifeless gaze staring at Joe in silent accusation…_

"Easy, Joseph. We just want to help you…"

… _as fire swept closer, choking oily smoke that stank of burnt polyester and shag carpet…and Joe retched, convulsing…_

 _Hands were on him, soft hands picking him up, stroking his forehead_ …

"…there, there…easy…David, Edward, get him back to 10-Genesis. Full restraints and get the IV set up again."

… _convulsing, Joe couldn't see, could barely breathe, as the hands lifted him away. Hands prodded at his mouth, his chest, splitting him open…pulling him forward, pulling him apart, thread by thread…_

 _Hot, he was so hot…he couldn't breathe…he was sweating, itching, burning…_

 _Joe! Joe!_

"Bequiet, Mattie. He can't hear you."

 _But he's helping us! He promised! He promised!_

"He can't promise anything. He's sick. Whatever he told you was a lie."

 _He's not sick! He's like Johnny!_

"Matilda!"

…" _Open your eyes, Joseph." Sharp cold pressed under his jaw. "Open your eyes."_

 _Fire swirled around him…his skin itched, burning…someone was screaming, someone…children…he had to protect, he had to shield…curled around…around…_

S _creams choked into labored breathing, then silence…_

The lights cut off. Sound fell away, muffled and indistinct in the shadowed hallway, save for the tread of shoes against tile.

… _a shadow fell over him._

 _Terrified, Joe huddled against the couch, unable to speak, unable to run, unable to escape, pinned under Dad's accusing glare…_

"— _you're saying that you — you let Frank —"_

… _itching…Joe's back and side itched, pinpricks that burned through his skin…soft fingers tracing his ribs and belly in a blaze of color, fire, and light…_

More insistent tugging — cold hands yanked at his arms, his jeans.

 _Joe fire._ Another whisper, softer and despairing, right by his ear. _Light. Light! Wake up! Wake up!_

Eyes watering, Joe shook his head, trying to see through the haze of drug and migraine…someone…

… _but then rough hands pulled him forward, across blood-slick concrete. Cold metal pressed under his jaw, sharp and insistent, and Joe moaned, unable to hold back, as fire and pain scorched through his chest…_

" _So tell me…who dies first?"_

Light blazed down again, harsh yellow-green fluorescents blurring his vision in tears and pain, as the orderlies dragged Joe towards the gurney. But then Joe saw past them, past the gurney, past Leta.

A dark, blurred shadow turned — in its hands a bloody blade gleamed in the light…but…there, below it…

…someone lay bound, someone covered in blood, their gaze fixed on Joe…

… _bright, vivid blue…Frank's lifeless, accusing gaze…_

And then there was fire.


	17. Hellfire

_A/N: Thanks to Leyapearl, ThirteenAM, Barb, DuffyBarkley, Wendylouwho10, Xenitha, MDPerryfan, Caranath & Paulina Ann for the reviews & comments!  
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With deliberate precision, the scalpel incised a bloody line down Frank's bared chest again…and again…and again…

All through it, Abrams smiled.

Bound, jaw clenched, Frank twisted against the restraints, fighting not to scream. He would not speak. He would not say anything. He would not give Abrams the satisfaction.

But there were no questions.

A buzzer had sounded and the orderlies left at a run — but the cuts continued, slow and precise. Then Abrams lifted the blade and placed it, delicately, gently, right at the corner of Frank's eye…

Noise — yelling cut off, followed by dragging and shuffling — and Abrams turned.

With a despairing moan, Frank watched as they dragged Joe in; Joe hung limp in their grasp. Behind them, that bitch Empath murmured in low, soothing tones, with occasional sharp commands snapped at someone Frank couldn't see.

"Joe…" Frank breathed.

Shaking his head, hair lank, sweating, Joe lifted his head, met Frank's gaze…

…and the room _exploded._

Fire burst from the air and slammed down from the ceiling, stealing all breath; fiery winds roared through the room, encircling Joe in a blazing tornado of golden foxfire. Foam baffling melted and dripped from the walls; the drop-ceiling crackled and collapsed.

Terrified, Frank bucked against the restraints, struggling for slack, anything he could use to get free. Joe'd had fits before, when he'd been dealing with the trauma post-NOLA, but not like this, dear _God,_ not like this!

With a roar, the acoustic baffling suddenly caught fire. Flames snaked up the walls and across the ceiling, filling the room with stinking, oily smoke that got drawn into the howling, blinding tornado of wind and fire that surrounded Joe. One of the orderlies was down, unconscious and skin blackened and blistered. The other wrestled Joe to the ground, attempting to smother the flames — unsuccessfully — with a blanket grabbed from the gurney.

Screaming wordlessly, Joe twisted, struggled, no sense or sanity in his eyes as the blazing tornado convulsed and _expanded_.

Something _yanked_ deep in Frank's chest, driving out all breath in a crushing squeeze. Panting, fighting to breathe, Frank strained and twisted against the straps as the flames closed in — please, God, he didn't want to die here!

Yelling orders at whoever still was in the corridor, Abrams struggled back to his feet and backed against the wall, his fingers moving in some odd pattern — and the fire and smoke moved _away_ from Abrams.

 _Brother. You brother._

It was a breathy whisper, right by Frank's ear — as if things weren't bad enough, the drugs and panic were making him hallucinate. Jaw clenched, Frank fought, trying to twist free…

The restraint on his left arm released.

Stunned, Frank stared, unable to believe that. The buckle had unlatched on its own. It couldn't have been Joe — Abrams wouldn't — that bitch Empath definitely wouldn't have —

Worry later — survive _now!_

Choking on the smoke and stench, Frank tore the other restraints loose, getting his head and other arm free. But the movement caught Abrams's attention. Hands glowing ugly red, Abrams rounded.

With both hands, Frank grabbed the tray of surgical instruments and slammed the metal sheet full into Abrams's throat.

Abrams's eyes bulged. He grabbed at his neck, gasping and choking, giving Frank just enough time to rip the restraints on his legs free. Then he lunged out of the chair and tackled Abrams head-on.

Somehow the man took the force of the tackle without dropping, his glowing hands clawing at Frank's face. Gasping, Frank rammed Abrams full-force against the metal sink, driving the corner of the metal into Abrams's stomach, and as the man doubled-over, Frank slammed his elbows down onto Abrams's shoulder.

The blow connected with a sickening crack, and Abrams staggered. Grabbing him, Frank slammed Abrams's head against the sink.

Abrams collapsed.

Alive, dead — right now, Frank didn't care. Nausea and dizziness surged; his insides twisted as energy drained from him in a hard, sickening rush. Clamping his hand over the bleeding slashes on his chest, dodging chunks of burning ceiling, Frank staggered back.

The walls were ablaze, the smoke blinding and stinking of bleach and oil, the winds whipping all of it into blazing, choking chaos. The second orderly was down, convulsing, screaming in thin, mewling wails — and Frank swallowed hard, seeing the man's skin. He'd once tossed a raw steak on a flaming, too-hot barbecue…

Retching, whimpering, Joe had collapsed over his hands and knees.

Heedless of his own safety, Frank hurled himself through the swirling fire, winds, and smoke, and rammed into Joe, slamming him into the gurney. _"Joe — Joe!"_

The impact snapped Joe's head back. Dazed, semi-conscious, Joe stared up into Frank's face…blinked…then sense flooded in. "Frank…?"

The fiery winds fell away into silence, as if they'd never been.

Well, except for the burning walls and ceiling, clanging fire alarms, and the men on the floor. Frank felt as if he'd been ripped inside-out, and right now he just wanted to lie down and sleep for a year…and at that point, Frank realized that the fire hadn't touched him at all.

That just made it even scarier.

To top everything off, Joe was _laughing,_ breathy, sobbed-out gulps _._ "Yeah, I'm a goop," he whispered. "I'm a chumpy goopy goop. Okay… _okay…"_

Great. Bleeding like a stuck pig and drugged on God-knew-what, and Frank still had to be the level-headed one to get them out alive. Coughing, fighting to breathe through the smoke, Frank struggled to his feet, hauling Joe up with him.

Joe didn't resist, leaning heavily against Frank as Frank half-dragged, half-carried him from the room. The flames had spread to the walls and ceiling in the corridor — and no fire extinguishers, no emergency fire hose, nothing, not even sprinklers, no one in sight, not even that woman doctor.

Nothing to be done, then, except get out as fast as possible.

"You're alive." Joe's grip tightened on Frank's shoulder. "You're _alive."_

Frank didn't answer, shoving through the door to the ward. Papers strewn everywhere, soaked with water and fire-extinguisher foam; the sprinklers still were still going off, puddles all over the floor. The ceiling was smoking, flames licking down between the cracks of the tiles — oh God, the fire had spread to the space above the drop-ceiling — smoke spiraled up from the still-sparking desk computers, and the air stunk. Chairs overturned; screaming and yelling echoed from the other corridor.

Still no one in sight. Not that woman, not that Asian doctor, no other nurses or orderlies…no security guards…

Worry _later_.

But then Frank remembered — best not leave behind blatant physical evidence, not with the CIA involved, and he didn't remember anyone taking the backpack when they'd caught him. He shoved Joe into the laundry room; his brother stumbled into the wall, barely caught himself.

"What…?"

Oh God, it wasn't here — they must've taken it. Frank turned back…then stopped. Noise banged and fumbled out in the ward. Frank pulled Joe over to the lee of the door jamb, a hand over Joe's mouth until, eyes closed, Joe nodded understanding. They both waited, watching through the cracked-open door…

…as Abrams staggered past and out of sight.

Rustling, cursing, then more staggering footsteps faded away. Frank waited until the silence reached a heart-thumping ten-count…but then Joe pushed away from the wall, staggered, and Frank caught him before Joe took a header into the wall.

The loudspeakers crackled overhead, loud even over the clanging fire alarms. _"Code Red Evac. All Staff. Code Red Evac."_

That didn't sound good.

"Mattie says he did something at the nurses station, then went for the stairs," Joe breathed. "No one else is out there, yet."

"Who?"

Joe only looked at him for a long, unsettling moment.

Never mind; not important. Get out — that was all that mattered. Thick smoke poured from the doors leading back to the Genesis rooms and crawled over the ceiling, and the stench of burning foam-rubber, plaster, and wood had intensified. Shaky from panic, foggy from the drugs, Frank got back under Joe's arm and hauled his brother out.

Trembling and gulping air, Joe was barely able to keep to his feet, shaking his head as if dazed. Somehow they staggered through the ward — and more noise erupted behind them: nurses, orderlies, herding patients through the far corridor and towards them.

" _Code Red Evac. All Staff. Code Red Evac."_

No time for politeness or being careful. Frank hauled Joe out the ward doors and to the stairwell, and there, Frank halted to peer over the railing. The last they needed was to run into emergency crews, police, or any of the staff — and Frank spotted Abrams, far below on the ground floor, followed by the slam of a metal door and muffled bellowing.

"All clear," Frank breathed, and started to haul Joe down the steps. With a bit of luck, they could make it to the lobby before Abrams realized they were still in the building…

Then, behind them, both wards blew up.

The building shook; debris slammed into the stairwell doors. Both brothers fell down the first half-flight of stairs to slam into the landing and wall. Screams — shrieks — the _stench —_ and fire and stinking black smoke erupted through the cracks of the door jamb —

"Oh God," Joe breathed, his face even paler than before. "He didn't…he _didn't…"_

Frank swallowed again and again, willing his stomach to stay down. Destroying the evidence, ensuring that witnesses didn't make it out to tell the tale, keeping intelligence from the hands of enemies — it all fit what Frank knew about Black Ops. But right now, neither brother were in any shape to help possible survivors. Frank hauled Joe back up. "Move."

Biting his lip, Joe hesitated — then nodded, sagging against Frank's shoulder as they staggered down the stairs. But when they hit the ground-floor landing, Joe dragged Frank to a stop.

A chill threaded up Frank's spine. Staring back towards the stairs, Joe breathed something out, then his gaze moved over the walls, floor…and something else.

"Joe…?"

"Mattie…down there. That's where the men were? With Sarry?"

"Joe, who are you talking to?"

Joe leaned over the railing to peer down the stairs. "Well, we're both having a bad day, but yeah, he really is."

Great. The drugs had to be making Joe hallucinate; God only knew what they'd used on him and it was probably tons heavier than whatever they'd dosed Frank with. Frank grabbed his brother's arm and shook it until Joe finally _saw_ him. "Joe…we have to get out of here. _Now."_

Up close, his brother looked as if he'd been dragged across gravel, face-down: pale, trembling, sweating, eyes wide and unfocused as if not seeing Frank at all. But then that unfocused gaze slid back to the stairs…and unexpectedly, Joe started laughing, weak and out of breath as he sagged against the railing. "Mattie says for a hawkshaw, you're even goopier than I am, and being off your chump must run in the family."

Frank opened his mouth…shut it…then managed, "Run that by me again?"

Shaking his head, Joe only pulled away and staggered down the stairs towards the basement.


	18. Revelations

_A/N: Sorry for the late post, folks. Thanks to Leyapearl, Xenitha, AlecTowser, Paulina Ann, Wendylouwho10, Barb, DuffyBarkley, Caranath, and ThirteenAM for the reviews & comments!_

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Clanging fire alarms echoed through the stone stairwell, the smoke a stinking, oily haze. Coughing, choking, drained near to collapse, Joe staggered down the stairwell, falling against the wall and railing over and over. His legs trembled, all his muscles cramping with those odd, twitching spasms. But Joe wasn't about to put his whole weight on Frank's shoulder, as much as Joe wanted to grab his brother into a bear-hug and _shake_ him out of sheer relief and joy.

… _dragged into the gray-foam room, blood trickling down to the drain…his brother bound, unmoving…_

… _Frank's lifeless, accusing gaze…_

God… _God…_

His grip tightened on Frank's shoulder; Frank was alive. _Alive._ Joe stared resolutely at the stone walls, the pitted metal stairs, the corroded railings, anything to keep the nightmare-memories away. Focus. He had to focus. Don't think of all those people trapped back in the wards. Don't think of what Abrams's explosion had done — what the fire must be doing — trapped people panicking — screaming —

… _howling despair, screaming rage, all ripped free and shattered his sanity in a blaze of fire and blood —_

Focus. _Focus._ Even through the stumbling haze of drugs and exhaustion, Joe could see the blood soaking through Frank's shirt; Frank stumbled, caught himself on the railing, then caught Joe before he did the same. How Frank was keeping to his feet was anyone's guess, but then again, raw survival tended to keep one moving.

 _Joe! Joe! We can't go there!_

Mattie's whispery screech rang through the stairwell as Frank tried to haul Joe through the ground floor door. Joe dragged Frank to a stop, and turned — whimpering, Sarah huddled against the wall. Mattie stood over her, both children staring at the door.

Breathing out something that would've made Aunt Gertrude blanch, Joe took a few deep breaths, trying to relax enough to study Mattie, Sarah, the stairwell. His arms ached from the spasms, his stomach rolled, his lungs were sore, and his head pounded. But there wasn't anything _here…_

Wait…

"Joe…?" Frank said.

The _cast iron_ stairwell, black and pitted, with rows of square holes in the risers, though the landing to the ground floor was old concrete, cracked and crumbling in spots. A slight draft blew through the riser holes — connected to the outside, then? But Joe couldn't see much magic: faint cords leading from the children to…somewhere, and that was it. Whoever had done the old magic had hidden it well, using cold iron to cover their tracks; Joe couldn't sense anything below him.

He rubbed at his arms to ease the twitching. Memory crawled back, what he'd guessed in the garret…the thick magic stinking of blood and death to create a hiding place — he _had_ to be right. Joe gripped at the bones of Mattie's hand through the denim of his jeans, but Mattie backed up, shaking her head.

 _I can't — we can't — they'll hurt Sarry again!_

Magic was will, magic was _belief_ — both children had to believe Joe was stronger than whatever held them here. He had to find and unravel it; there was no way around it. "Mattie…down there…that's where…that's where the men were? With Sarry?"

Mattie nodded as Sarah whimpered again.

"Joe, who are you talking to?"

 _This big goop really is your brother?_

"Well, we're both having a really bad day," Joe said. "But yeah, he is."

Frank grabbed Joe's arm, forced Joe to look at him; he looked as bad as Joe felt. " _Joe._ We have to get out of here. _Now."_

 _Hmph. He's even goopier than you, goop. Your whole family must be off the chump. He didn't even thank Sarry!_

Unexpectedly, Sarah giggled and peeped out from behind Mattie. _Goopy goop!_

All the terror, the panic, the grief and confusion, nearly killed several times over, drugged to the gills, starved, exhausted, trembling so hard he could barely stand — and Joe collapsed against the railing, laughing weakly. "Mattie says…Mattie says…oh _God…_ for a hawkshaw, you're even goopier than I am. Being off your chump must run in our family."

For once, Joe had managed to catch his brother speechless. Frank gaped at him…then somehow managed, "Run that by me again?"

Pulling away, Joe staggered down the stairs towards the basement. He had to be crazy, doing this; every inch of his dazed brain shrilled at him to _get out._ He misjudged the bottom step, stumbled, and fell against the padlocked door under the landing, emblazoned with a bright yellow _WARNING_ sign.

Electrocution, chemicals — right. Whoever made the sign obviously didn't care about the CIA, ghosts, lobotomies, explosions…

Frank caught up and grabbed him again. "What are you _doing?_ "

Before Joe could answer, noise burst through the lobby door above them. Startled, Joe looked up, but Frank shoved him back under the stairwell. Fire fighters, from the sound of it, dragging hoses, yelling and shouting orders as they clomped and clattered upstairs.

The fire fighters wouldn't bother with down _here_ , not when all the chaos was up _there._ Joe pushed Frank away, then sagged against the door as he touched the padlock. Focus. He could do this. Padlocks weren't hard, just a matter of lining up the pins.

"I'm keeping a promise," Joe said, and _pushed_.

The lock clicked open…and Joe grayed out; Frank caught him before he hit the floor. Shaking his head to clear it, Joe grabbed the lock again — and yelped, dropped it. It was _hot._

"Show-off," Frank muttered. Wrapping the end of his bloody shirt around his own hand, he tugged at the chain, pulled it free of the door. "No more. Your control's gone and you're way past the collapse point."

Like Frank wasn't, but _bravely-bearing-up_ Older Brother wouldn't admit anything was wrong, not until he collapsed, no matter what Joe said.

Then again, neither would Joe, but that was beside the point.

 _We can't._ Small, scared, trembling. The children hung back by the stairs, Sarah hiding behind Mattie, but Mattie's fists were balled up. _Joe…Sarry can't. That's…that's where they…she can't. She can't!_

"Yes, you can," Joe said, with a wary glance towards where the firemen still clattered through the lobby door. "We'll protect you. My — my magic is lots stronger than — than anything those people had. See?" He nudged the chain and lock towards them with his foot.

To Joe's surprise, Frank didn't interrupt, only looked from Joe to where Mattie and Sarah stood — though Frank shifted uneasily.

 _Fire._ Sarah crept forward to touch the chain. _Light._

"Yes, Sarry." Joe rubbed at his arms and hands as another cramp spasmed through them. "Fire and light always get rid of the darkness."

Mattie was gripping Sarah's hand again…but Sarah's gaze moved up to Frank.

"Tell her we're her big brothers," Frank said suddenly. "And big brothers don't let _anyone_ hurt our little sister."

Surprised again, Joe looked at him.

"I do catch up from time to time." Frank's gaze moved to the stairs above them as more fire fighters stormed through the lobby door, yelling instructions and orders. "A ghost?"

"Children," Joe said firmly.

Mattie scowled up at Frank. _Goop. Ain't no such thing as ghosts._

 _Mountain,_ Sarah whispered, still looking at Frank. _Mountain, Mattie. Light. Both light._

Explanations could wait. Joe gripped Mattie's bones as he shoved the door open. "Come on, Mattie. I'm holding your hand and you're holding Sarry's. Stay near Frank if you're scared."

Oh, the look on Frank's face. "You're holding her _hand?"_

Joe ignored that. They staggered through the basement door and into a dark, damp-smelling space; Frank shoved a metal chair under the door-handle to jam it shut. Dark, dank, musty, with a faint smell of burnt ozone: old stone, old concrete, the only light through the glazed window of the door — the ceiling lights were shattered and blown. A wall lined with conduits and large fuse boxes, rows of metal utility shelves with more stuff, barrels.

Most important, _safe_. No one would expect them to be here, and right now everyone had more important things to worry about than two exhausted, drugged-up escapees.

Joe hoped, anyway.

But just as he sagged from relief and the welcome coolness of the basement, Frank grabbed him into a bear-hug.

That — the unexpected hug, the relief, the fear…what he'd seen upstairs, the nightmares, grief, the visions, _everything…_ and then Joe realized that Frank was shaking…and fighting back tears, too.

 _Your face looks funny again._

"It's…it's just been a really bad day, Mattie." Joe pulled away — though he kept an arm tight around Frank's shoulder — and took a few moments to breathe and get back under control. "For both of us."

"Actually, I'd say it's a really _good_ day," Frank said, smiling. "Okay. Ghosts. Children. Explain. Now."

 _What is it with this big goop and ghosts?_ Mattie stayed near the door, plainly not wanting to go deeper into the basement. Sarah peeped out from behind her, staring at both Joe and Frank.

Joe hesitated; he wasn't sure he wanted to explain that to them just yet. Best focus on Frank. "They're a couple kids." Joe peered around, but he couldn't see or feel any magic down here. Though considering how well the garret had been hidden — he had to be right. "Mattie — Matilda, I mean — and Sarah. Mattie's about nine or ten —"

 _Eleven!_

Joe bit back a smile. "Sorry. _Eleven_ , Mattie says.I don't know about Sarah."

 _We're twins. Sarry's older._

Sarah thwapped Mattie's head. _Baby Mattie!_

 _Goop! Stop it!_

Joe had to smile. "Twins, and just as rotten as we were. I think they're from before turn of the century —"

"1900's, definitely," Frank said.

Oookay. Joe looked at him.

"Those words you used," Frank said patiently; he looked calmer, but kept glancing where Mattie and Sarah were. "Goop, chump, hawkshaw — those are from the 1900's. _"_ Frank smiled a little at Joe's expression. "So I'm fairly sure you're not hallucinating. You don't read enough of the right books to know those words."

"Thanks a lot," Joe muttered. "So naturally you're not going to tell me what they mean."

 _You goops can read?_

That caught Joe by surprise. "You can't?"

Mattie shook her head. _Doo-goos kept comin' to the factory to put us all in school, but Mister Blanck kept throwin' 'em out and made all the boys throw rocks at 'em. He told us to learn things on our own time, not his, but we never got no time. Then there was the fire and Papa died and Sarry got hurt…and…and…Mama…_ Mattie looked down, scuffed at the floor. _Mama couldn't feed us no more._

"Joe?" Frank said quietly.

Trying to keep his voice calm, Joe repeated all that, and Frank looked away. Joe didn't blame him — reading about history was one thing, but here, now…

 _You know lion story._ Sarah had crept closer to Joe. _Read all? Please?_

 _The nice lady said there was one more book with a big battle with everyone._ Mattie looked up hopefully. _She was going to bring it and read it to us._

"They know the Narnia stories." Joe's voice cracked; he swallowed, tried again. "That woman read to them. Mattie's saying they never got to the last book."

Frank nodded. "If we get out of this, I'll buy it and read it to them myself."

 _He can hear us?_

"No, Mattie," Joe said quietly. "He can't hear you or see you. He's not —"

"I can't hear you," Frank overrode him, addressing the spot Joe was facing. "But Joe says you're there and he says you're in trouble, so I'll help you, too." Now Frank's gaze met Joe's. "I trust my brother. He doesn't lie. Ever."

 _Mountain,_ Sarah whispered. _Mountain like Papa._

"But right now," Frank went on, "my goopy hawkshaw brother needs to do whatever he dragged us down here for so we can _leave —"_

"I know what _hawkshaw_ means, y'know." Joe sank down to the concrete, pleasantly cool to his skin and aching arms and legs. Maybe if he had full contact with the stone, he could pick something up.

 _Goopy goop!_ _Goopy goop!_

"But you're still goopy," Frank eased to the floor in front of Joe, "because if you'd bother _telling_ me what you're doing, I could help."

Deep breath, slow, even. Something had to be here; even with the chill of the concrete, the cramps hadn't eased, Joe's arms and legs aching and restless. He'd never reacted like this to magic before. "There's…there's hiding places here. Bad blood magic…they couldn't find me or even hear me, and Mattie says no one's ever found the one upstairs. They used these kids to make it. I think there's another down here that — that they used Sarah for."

Frank absorbed all that, his face set in the abstracted scowl that meant he was thinking hard. "But that doesn't explain why _you're_ here."

"They've been helping me." Joe rubbed at his aching head, with a glance at the kids; exhaustion made it hard to think. "But they're trapped. The magic's holding them here."

"Joe, there's a lot of stuff holding them here," Frank said gently. "Knowing when they were alive in this place…no, Joe, I know you. There's something you're not saying."

 _What's he mean, when we were alive?_ Scowling, Mattie stomped over to Frank and poked him in the shoulder — and Frank jumped. _Goop, we're right here!_

"Mattie, he can't —"

 _I know he can't see us. You_ said _that. And I'm tellin' you what they did! They made me and Sarry like this because of what Sarry can do, so now we can't leave and no one can see us 'cept some of you goops who are off your chump and think we're bogeys and you're all too goopy to get it!_

Head in his hands, Joe breathed a long, heavy sigh. He wasn't ready for this.

"Let me guess," Frank said. "They don't know."

 _Know_ what, _goop?_

Joe shook his head. "And Sarah's Gifted. A lot of that mess upstairs was because of her."

 _Joe help! Joe give fire!_

He smiled. "Yes, Sarry, I helped. Sarah used my amp — she hooked right in without me doing anything," he said to Frank, who whistled. "I'm just not sure how to explain to them —"

 _Goopy chumpy hawkshaw. I'm not stupid! You're trying to get rid of the devil stuff so people can see us again. That's all that's "holding us here", no matter what your goopy bimbo brother says!_

Joe blinked, confused. "Um…Mattie just called you a _bimbo."_

Frank's mouth quirked. "Yeah. That word's changed a bit. Take it slow, Joe. Just like Dad did when we were kids."

 _Goop, bimbo, and both of you off your chumps. What do you_ think _it means, goop?_

Joe was not about to go into that. "Anyway…what Tag said, about physical focuses and connections. Mattie's body is up in the garret…"

 _My what?!_

Crap — it'd slipped out. Frank stared at him…then Frank's gaze fell to Joe's hip, and the jeans pocket with the bones.

Her chin thrust out, Mattie had moved in front of Sarah, who was whimpering again. Joe did not want to trigger any kind of meltdown, not here, not now…but…lying wasn't an option, not in magic, especially not to kids who'd been hurt so badly, and there were no take-backs in real life. Carefully Joe pulled the handkerchief out, laid it on the concrete, then unwrapped it to expose the bones. Frank's breath hissed in.

Mattie backed up. _That…that's…you…that's what they…_

"I said I was holding your hand, Mattie," Joe said gently. "Your body's upstairs, in your hiding place. What's left of it."

 _No! I'm right here! Me and Sarry are right here!_

"Yes, you are. But your body's upstairs. You're dead, Mattie, both you and Sarry. You've been dead for a long time."

"And physical trumps emotional," Frank said, just as quietly. "I get it. So you think Sarah's down here and their bodies are what's holding the magic in place."

Joe nodded. "And them."

 _Booshwash! You're lying! You're lying!_

"Why would I lie, Mattie?" Joe looked away. "Believe me, honey, I don't want you to be dead. I want you and Sarry to be alive and happy and able to come home with me and Frank —"

"Tag'd love that," Frank murmured.

"— but…you're not. And good magic is all about truth. I can't lie, not about this. Not to you."

Sarah hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. She was staring at Joe…a stare that moved to Frank, then back. _Fire,_ Sarah whispered, creeping closer. _Mountain._ _Light. Light, Mattie!_

Mattie's hands had balled up. _Leave my sister alone! Don't you dare touch her!_

But then Sarah touched the bones. _Truth. Joe tell truth._

"Yes, Sarry," Joe whispered. "I am."

 _Sarry, the goopy hawkshaw's tricking us! Just like they did! He's — he's —_

"If you want to hit me," Joe said, "go ahead, Mattie. I can't stop you. But it won't change these bones being yours. It won't change you being dead."

"Easy, Joe," Frank said. "They're just kids."

 _Just kids?_ Just _kids? Goop, what do you know about it?_

"He didn't mean it like that, Mattie," Joe said.

 _Like you're meanin' better! You sayin' we're dead. You don't know_ dead. _You sittin' there in them fancy clothes and everythin' — you ain't never worked 'til your hands bled an' your feet froze to blisters and Mister Blanck yellin' at you —_

"No," Joe said, still quiet, "I never did."

— _and you never seen 'em jump outta windows to get away from the fire because they locked all the doors and they got smashed on the cobbles and them layin' the burnt ones on the street so everyone can stare at 'em. And you ain't seen Papa coughin' up black stuff and Mama sayin' that's it and dumpin' us here —_

Joe bowed his head under that raging rush of anger and horror. What could he say, to all that pain, that horror…

Sarah had crept to Mattie's side, huddling there, trying to hug her sister, but Mattie was too caught up in rage to notice.

— _and what they did to us and the others, them chumpy goops, the ones with the eyes and the nurses just ignored it and us screamin' and they wouldn't stop…and I saw…I mean, they…they…made me…Sarry…I mean…I couldn't…and they did…_

Then…it all clicked, his nightmares, the hallucinations, a rush of understanding in sad, horrible clarity. Joe raised his head. "You mean they killed Sarry. And you couldn't stop them, Mattie. Because they made you watch."

Mattie gasped, backed up. _No! They — I didn't!_

"They did," Joe whispered. "You said you ran and hid upstairs, and I wondered how they set the magic up there. But that's not it. They killed Sarry…and you got loose, and you ran — but they caught you again."

 _No! No!_

"Jesus, Joe," Frank said softly.

"Bad people did that to me, too." Joe dropped his gaze back to the bones. "And your nice lady — she made me live everything again. They made me watch while Thatcher…" Joe had to stop, swallowing again and again. "…and I couldn't…I couldn't…"

Frank reached, gripped Joe's hand.

 _Goop, why you cryin'? You're cryin' like a snotty little_ baby!

"Because you're wrong, Mattie," Joe said quietly. "I do know death. I know it just as badly as you do."

 _Truth, Mattie._ Sarah tugged at her sister's gown. _Truth!_

On impulse, Joe laid his hand on the bones…and Mattie gasped.

 _You — you — that's what they did! Bones and blood and — and —you're doing devil stuff!_

"No, Mattie," Joe overrode her. "I'm not doing anything magic. If these weren't your bones, you wouldn't feel it. Go on — ask Sarry if I'm doing any devil stuff. She can tell."

Mattie hesitated, looked down at Sarah, and backed away even more. _But…_

Sarah had raised her head. _Not devil. Not magic. Light, Mattie. Light! Joe touch Mattie._ Then, softer, _Dead, Mattie. Joe tell truth._

 _But…but…_ Mattie's gaze moved to the bones, to Sarry, to Joe — then, with a sobbing howl, she whirled and fled out the basement door.


	19. Shattering

_A/N: muahahaha. Thanks to Barb, Paulina Ann, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, DuffyBarkley, Caranath, Xenitha, & SunshineInTheGraySky for the reviews & comments! For those interested, the laws of magic I use are based on Isaac Bonewits's "Real Magic" (scholarly) and "Authentic __Thaumaturgy" (the Cliff Notes version for writers). Isaac Bonewits: the only person to hold a PhD in magic from UCLA...signed by Ronald Reagan. Yes. Seriously._

 _(small update made today; I accidentally uploaded an older text file last night.)_

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Breathing out heavily, Joe sagged. He hadn't meant to scare Mattie like that. She was already trapped in a bad situation and he'd just made it worse…

"Joe?"

"Mattie ran." Joe rubbed at his forehead. His head still ached; the restless cramping had been getting worse. "God. I wish Tag was here."

"You and me both," Frank said. "What about the other one…Sarah?"

 _Mattie scared._ _Sarry scared. Hurts. Hurts!_

"I'm sorry, Sarry," Joe whispered. "I'm really, really sorry." To Frank, "She's saying she and Mattie are really scared, and that it hurts."

Bowing his head, Frank breathed something out.

 _Want hug. Want Papa!_

Biting his lip, unsure what good it would do, Joe hesitated…then held his arms open.

Sarah crept up to huddle against his side; Joe encircled her in his arms. It hurt to hold them in the air like that, but he didn't know what would happen if his arms went through her. For just a moment, he felt warmth and weight against his side, but then it was gone.

 _Scared. Scared!_ Sarah rocked back and forth, her head buried against Joe's side.

Frank scooted closer, enough so Joe could rest his arms on Frank's leg…then, to Joe's surprise, Frank laid his arms along Joe's, so that Sarah huddled within the circle of both.

"I'm scared, too," Frank said.

"That makes four of us," Joe muttered. Frank didn't just mean the CIA; Joe was sure of it. His brother hadn't entirely gotten over his fear of ghosts.

Frank hesitated, looking down at their arms. "I think…think…I'm hearing her. Someone whispering, anyway — it's not clear at all."

Joe had to give his brother an out. "Scopolamine's hallucinogenic."

"I know." Frank looked away.

 _Brave,_ Sarah whispered. _Fire. Mountain. Brave. Help hurt stop._ Then, suddenly, Sarah lunged out of their arms and _howled_ at the door: _Mattie goopy goop-head!_

Sudden, eerie silence —

"I felt that, whatever it was," Frank said, shivering. "Like something sawed through my arms. What happened?"

Joe managed another smile. "Sarry's acting like a big sister."

Frank raised an eyebrow; Joe only gave him his best wide-eyed innocent look. Let Frank figure out what he meant.

"Sarah?" Frank said. "Joe's _my_ baby brother — feel free to get all big sister on him, too."

Joe gave his brother a sour look. Unexpectedly, Sarah giggled and thwacked at Joe's head, just as she had Mattie's.

 _Baby goop! Baby goop!_

"Okay. I think I know where Sarah's…I mean…where that other place is at." Frank started to push to his feet, then swayed and collapsed, ending up bent over his hands and knees and breathing hard. "God…"

 _Bravely-bearing-up_ had just collapsed. Joe gripped his brother's arm, but Frank shook him off.

"I'm okay. Really. It's just the drugs."

"And you're bleeding. Lots. I notice things, too, y'know."

"It's stopped, mostly." Holding onto Joe's shoulder, Frank steadied himself, then got to his feet. "C'mon."

How Frank knew where it was when Joe couldn't sense anything…then again, the garret had been hidden from everyone, too, and Joe had found that — granted, with Mattie's help, but he'd still found it. Moving into the near-total darkness away from the door had him shivering, even after Frank snagged a flashlight off one of the shelves. Joe kept seeing things out of the corner of his eye - large things. Shadowy things. _Moving_ things.

Maybe just the drugs. _Hopefully_ just the drugs.

 _With._ Sarah tugged on Joe's jeans. _With._

"I'm with you, too, honey," Joe murmured. "We're all _with_ together."

They reached the farthest part of the basement away from the door, behind all the shelves and barrels and boxes. Joe halted, skin crawling — but now he understood how Frank must've found it. In order to put together all that stuff in the backpack, Frank must've headed for someplace he wouldn't be spotted, and this dusty, grimy corner certainly fit the bill. Thick with cobwebs and dust, a pile of broken pallets and barricaded it, the concrete floor crumbled away to expose cobbles and bare dirt. The air was thick and dead; even their voices sounded muffled.

Frank played the flashlight over the area. Joe stopped him when the light hit the wall, seeing faint, darker markings: swirls of lines and curves intersecting circles, slash marks, runes.

Sarah huddled behind Joe. _Brave. Brave. With._

"Stay here, Sarry." Joe struggled over the pile, trying not to topple the shelving as he held onto it for balance; the room spun, and he swayed, nearly toppled onto the dirt. "Frank, find something to dig with."

" _What?"_

But Sarah swung her head back and forth. _With!_ She crawled towards the pile, bumped into something, and cringed back — then her face scrunched up, a scowl made fiercer by the scarring and melted-waxy skin, like a snarling lioness. She raised her fist and smacked at the air; Joe _saw_ the energy ripple. _With! With!_

That made no sense. Why keep Sarah out? The place upstairs let the girls in…unless…this place was the key to _both_. He had to be right. _He had to be!_

"Joe, we don't have time to dig up a body! And that's assuming I'd _want_ to!" Frank sagged against the wall, shaking his head. "Jesus. I can't believe I just said that."

"It shouldn't be buried deep," Joe said patiently, still watching Sarah. "They wouldn't have had the time or the tools, not if they were trying to hide what they were doing. Mattie's was out in the open."

 _With!_ _With!_

"Of all the brothers in the world, I had to get the necromantic nutcase," Frank muttered, but staggered back towards the front, playing the flashlight methodically over the shelves.

As Frank searched the shelves, Joe settled onto the dirt and cobbles at the edge of the space and relaxed his eyes. Watching the patterns that Sarah's strikes made — the air shuddered through the space each time she struck, following distinct lines of force spread through the dirt, walls, and air like a spider's web. Similar to the garret, the energy felt old and sticky, reeking of blood and death…but, oddly, thinner, weaker, with a distinct rushed feel…

 _With! With!_

…as if the magic had been interrupted…or they'd had to take hasty shortcuts when one of their victims broke free and fled.

In the center of the web lay a small curl of energy.

God. This had to be the one time Joe hadn't wanted to be right. Swallowing back sudden tears, he scooted closer, careful not to disturb the actual site — for the moment, anyway. Keeping his hand an inch or so over the dirt, Joe slowly ran his hand over the energy, feeling it out, sensing the pattern and connections…and seeing horrifying, enraging flashes of image, three men, two cowering children...blood...

Sarah gasped, backing up. _Shivers!_

"It's you, Sarry," Joe murmured, his attention focused on that pathetic curl, squeezing his eyes shut against the horror. "The magic's keeping you tied here, to your body, just like Mattie's. Magic's all about connections —"

 _Oh. Oh!_ Sarah's hands were over her mouth. _Like you! You connect me. Upstairs!_

Joe paused, puzzling that out. "Yeah…sort of. I think."

"Here." Frank tossed a garden trowel to Joe, clambered over the pile to set a metal jug on the dirt, then reached back to haul a bucket in. When Joe only looked at him, Frank nodded at the marks on the wall. "Denatured alcohol and rock salt. Get rid of those and break the magic. Then we consecrate the salt and use that to hallow the ground."

 _Sarry see! Sarry see!_

For someone who had been so skeptical and disbelieving of any "spooky stuff" while growing up, Frank could be magically brilliant. "Sarry, honey, stop a moment," Joe said; Sarah had started smacked the air again. "Me and Frank need to — _ow!_ "

His words cut off in a yelp as something _reached_ inside him and _yanked_ …just as Sarah howled and struck the air with both fists.

The energy _shattered._

Frank shoved Joe down, covering him with his own body and shields. Energy flared in a shower of sparks; jagged red cracks lanced through the web and snapped it into pieces that fell to the dirt…

…and dissipated.

 _With._ Sarah crawled to their side of the junk pile, her lopsided, twisty grin transforming her whole face, as if the lioness now had a feather hanging from the corner of her mouth. _With!_

Gasping, Joe pushed Frank off, even as Frank struggled up to his elbows…but Joe collapsed right back to the dirt. He felt as if his gut had been yanked out and stomped on by hordes of angry elephants — angry, eleven-year-old, bratty elephants.

"Sarah?" Frank said to Joe.

"Sarah." He really didn't want to get up right now.

"And of all the ghosts, you had to befriend a nuclear bomb," Frank muttered. He placed a hand against Joe's forehead, then felt for Joe's pulse; Joe tried to shake him off, but his muscles wouldn't respond right. Frank bowed his head, muttered under his breath. It sounded as if he was counting to ten. "Let me guess. You've been letting her hook in with no controls at all."

"Well…it just kinda happened…"

"Idiot! She could've _killed_ you!"

 _No! Fire! Light! No kill!_

"Sarry…it's okay," Joe croaked out. "You didn't know."

Frank stayed bent over his hands, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep. "Okay…okay. I'll let Tom tear into you later. Let's just get whatever you need out of here and —"

" _Tom?"_

"Tom _Walker._ Bronx Center." Slow, over-patient, from clenched teeth. "I'm not an idiot, Joe. I called them for backup and they're —"

"We had backup? _And you didn't say anything?"_

"I'd say you've both said plenty already."

Both brothers startled, jerked around — Joe instantly regretted it as the room swam and his head spun; he collapsed back over the dirt just as Frank shoved Joe behind him. Sarah gasped, fled behind Joe.

Gun trained on the brothers, Abrams stood there, Leta behind him…

…and Abrams held Mattie bound against his side, a strangling coil of blood-magic looped around her neck.


	20. Exhumation

_A/N: I'm truly sorry for the lateness of this post; my beloved husband & beta-reader caught a problem two chapters ago, and I've been scrambling to fix it without having to tear the entire story apart. To make matters worse, I'll be going into the hospital on Friday for necessary surgery complicated by existing major health issues; I will attempt to get the ending chapters posted before then, even if I have to make multiple posts the same day. _

_Anyway, thanks to Leyapearl, Barb, AlecTowser, Paulina Ann, Caranath, Wendylouwho10, Xenitha, and MDPerryfan (who commented on my FB page!) for the reviews & comments!_

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"I saw her. One of those brats of yours _helped_ him!"

Ignoring Abrams, Leta watched the fire fighters and chaos outside the hospital. She'd fled when 10-Genesis exploded; she'd keyed the fire alarms again and alerted security for full evacuation. She had no ability to fight the fire herself, not against an out-of-control mage-Gifted calling down a final strike of that magnitude.

But Subject 214 had shown _nothing_ on that scale, _nothing!_

"Stupid, useless, deformed _bitch…"_

Leta had seen the second explosion outside, had watched in horror as massive fireballs engulfed all of fifth floor — 214 had slaughtered all those innocent people, the nurses and staff and patients, just for _revenge._ Granted, he hadn't been sane at that point — Leta had felt the crack — but if that so-called Association taught their people to do _that…_

"I told you to leave them alone. They were of no use to us. And now look what they've done, because _you_ needed to play _mother."_

Abrams sat on the bumper of a paramedic truck, his hands bandaged, his face reddened and hair singed from the flames. How he'd managed to get out before Genesis ward went up was a wonder, but then, he was a highly-trained jack.

Even if he did completely lack anything resembling telepathy, empathy, and humanity.

"I heard you," Leta said coldly. "What's done is done. I didn't think they'd take to another subject, not after the last one."

She'd befriended those two pathetic little ghosts, Sarah and Mattie. She knew what their lives had likely been like before they'd died — asylums were rarely kind to their inmates, and that wasn't counting the torture that passed for "treatment". Two prepubescent girls, one severely mentally and physically handicapped? The best they could've hoped for was to die quickly.

Leta had tried to find out why they were still here, but had only been met with confusion and anger: the girls weren't aware they were dead, and Leta didn't have the heart to break their delusion. So she'd played with them — small games of hide-and-seek that weren't obvious to the staff — and read to them under the guise of reading to the severely mentally-handicapped patients, the ones who'd provided cover for the real purpose of Genesis ward. All the tales Leta had loved as a girl: _The Door In The Wall;_ _Twig; The Children of Green Knowe; Pippi Longstocking; The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe…_and the children had fallen in love with Narnia and demanded more.

She had the final Narnia book, _The Last Battle,_ in her purse. She'd intended to read it to them during the evening shift, but…

"You _didn't_ think," Abrams snarled. "That was your problem —" His voice cut off; he raised his head, focused on the building. Silence, then, "Those…clever…goddamned…bastards…"

Even through Abrams's shields, there was no mistaking that surge of focused, cold rage. "Excuse me?" Leta said.

"It seems Subject 214 managed to survive the closure of Genesis. I just caught his mark below us. They're in the basement."

Leta stared. 214 had called a final strike…but survived…and hadn't fled? That was impossible. It made no sense. Then she realized what Abrams had said. _"Both_ of them?"

"I hope so." Abrams was grinning. "Time to make up for your blunder, Dr. Mannheim. Use that 'path of yours so these nice self-sacrificing firemen don't catch us."

He wanted to go in after them? After a mage-Gifted capable of all _that?_ "We can wait. They'll come out eventually."

"No, Doctor. Cleaning up your mess doesn't entail endangering all these innocent people around us." Abrams got to his feet; from the shape his right hand made in his jacket pocket, Leta didn't dare refuse further. "Two more bodies in the basement, in the remains of another explosion — so tragic, two saboteurs incinerating themselves by accident."

"Saboteurs?" Leta said mildly.

Abrams gave her a long, considering look. "214 is a weapon, and he's been subverted by the other side. We've paid the price for trying to save him. It's war, Dr. Mannheim. We dare not leave weapons to be used by the enemy, no matter the cost. Now move."

She couldn't argue. How many times had she used the same argument with herself? The Cold War was pitiless: the Commies used every weapon, every subversive and covert tactic at their disposal, along with more conventional and destructive ones. The US had to respond in kind, or suffer the consequences, and those who did not stand with the US were against all that its people stood for, fought for, and died for.

Leta knew that. She didn't have to like it.

Using her Empathy to make the emergency crews ignore two people — easy. What wasn't easy was dealing with the choking, stinking smoke and oily haze, even this far below the fire. She was in her doctor's uniform; she wasn't dressed for this. But the moment they were through the rear stairwell door and halfway down the stairs, something _howled_ out of the basement door…

…and pulled up short with a gasp.

"Mattie?" Leta said. The little girl looked distraught, cringing back as Leta moved towards her. "What's wrong?"

"Something tells me the little bitch found out what her new playmate's really like," Abrams said.

 _No,_ Mattie whispered. _No!_ She rounded —

— and jerked back, grabbing at her neck as she went to her knees.

"Oh, no, you don't." Abrams held his hand up: a bone. It looked like a bit of skull, part of the occipital, threaded on a leather cord wrapped in tattered cloth. "I stumbled across their hiding place a while ago. One of the attics. I should've thought of it when 214 disappeared, but that's part of its magic, to make you forget. But I took this as a bit of insurance." He studied it thoughtfully. "I couldn't find the other one, though."

 _Sarry! Sar —_ Mattie choked off, hands at her throat.

"No, you don't do that, either," Abrams said.

"Let her go," Leta said. "She's not hurting us. And 214's likely so exhausted he won't be any problem, even if he is warned."

"That's your problem, Doctor. You're too sentimental. This brat's already dead." Abrams jerked on the cord; Mattie whimpered. "She and her sister are the reason we lost Genesis. Consequences must be paid — that's a big law in magic. And I will not leave any weapon to be used by the enemy, doctor. No matter what that weapon is."

 _Stinky!_ Mattie flew at him, struck out with her fists. _Goopy stinky goop!_

With a jerk, Abrams twisted the cord; Mattie choked off, her hands clawing at her throat. "Move, brat."

He yanked Mattie along with him down the stairs. Leta said nothing, her mouth a tight line as she followed. She didn't care what happened to 214 or his brother. They'd killed an entire ward of innocents; they deserved whatever happened to them. But the two children didn't deserve any of this, ghosts or not. 214 had dragged these poor children in. Because of him, Mattie and Sarah had gotten involved, and now Mattie…

Leta stopped at the door to the basement, holding up a hand; the door window was glazed, so no chance of being seen. Muffled voices echoed just past the door, followed by Sarah's whispery howl…

 _Mattie goopy goop-head!_

Leta stretched her senses out: two living people past the door, definitely the brothers. Her mouth stretched in a grim smile. 214 was near-collapse from exhaustion, his shields thin to the point of non-existent…though the brother's shields were still strong. Interesting.

 _Please,_ Mattie begged, a bare breath of whisper. _Please. Don't hurt Sarry. Don't hurt my sister._

Abrams jerked on the cord again, silencing her. Leta clenched her jaw, paying attention to the feelings and sensations from past the door. The sooner they got this done, the sooner Abrams would let Mattie loose. The double senses of presence and life started moving farther away from the door, to what felt like the far wall…then vanished.

"Huh," Abrams grunted…then, slowly, smiled. "Well. So that's where the other brat is. I should've known. 'As above, so below', and all that. So typical of Crowley's set." He shoved the door open.

A rattling clatter of metal clanged to the concrete floor.

Leta froze, but Abrams only pulled her after him into the basement proper. A metal folding chair lay askew a couple feet away, but there was no noise to indicate they'd been heard. Odd…

Something else lay on the floor: a handkerchief, with more bones spread on it — hand bones. Leta's breath caught. So 214 had been controlling Mattie, too. Or were these Sarah's?

"Interesting," Abrams said, kneeling to examine them.

Then light fountained up along the back wall, fiery lines that cracked through the space and made the air ripple and quake. Leta startled, but, cocking his head and gesturing for her to follow, Abrams moved towards it. Then the noise and light died…and muffled voices replaced it, becoming clearer as Leta and Abrams got closer. They stopped a row away; Leta held up her hand, extending her Empathy out again.

"…you let her hook in with no controls at _all?"_ The brother: Leta still sensed nothing through those shields. If only they could keep the brothers alive long enough to figure out how those shields had been done…!

"It just kinda happened…" 214 sounded barely conscious — and felt it, his thoughts stumbling, jumbled, and incoherent. Leta caught Abrams's attention, mouthing _Exhausted. Near collapse. No threat._

Abrams nodded.

"She could've _killed_ you!" The brother again.

 _No! Fire! Light! No kill!_ Sarah's whisper, agitated and upset. What had 214 done to her?

Mattie started forward; Abrams twisted the cord, jerking her back against him.

"Sarry…it's okay," 214 said. "You didn't know." Odd. He sounded…reassuring — he cared what his slave thought? Scowling, Leta reached out mentally, though she didn't dare touch beyond surface impressions; she didn't want to chance him catching her. But…concern? _Worry_ for Sarah?

Leta glanced back towards where the hand bones lay. This was not making sense.

Silence, broken only by someone breathing slow and deep. Abrams held a finger to his mouth as Leta was about to speak.

"Never mind," the brother said. "I'll let Tom tear into you later. Let's get whatever you need and get out of here—"

"Tom?"

"Tom _Walker._ Bronx Center. I'm not an idiot, Joe. I got backup —"

"We had backup? _And you didn't say anything?"_

Smiling, Abrams stepped out, his gun trained on Subject 214. "I'd say you've said plenty."

Both 214 and his brother startled. The other ghost-child, Sarah, _eep'e_ d and fled behind them, peeping out from behind Subject 214…then gasped when she saw her sister. Smeared with grime and soot, trembling and unsteady, pale, collapsed over his hands and knees, 214 stared up at them with unfocused, dazed eyes.

"He's got Mattie," he whispered, as his brother edged in front of him.

Both children were whimpering; Mattie tried to twist, only for Abrams to yank the cord. The only light was the dropped flashlight, its beam haloing both brothers from behind. Back in this chilly, junk-filled corner, the concrete had crumbled away, exposing the original cobbles and bare dirt. Leta shivered; the shadows seemed alive and moving…

"That won't do any good," Abrams said to the brother, who now stood in front of 214. "A nine-mil will go through both of you, easily.

"Maybe I don't believe in wasting bullets." Under the soot and dirt, the brother's face was pale, but calm.

Shrugging, Abrams lowered the gun…then fired.

Crying out in shock and agony, the brother collapsed to the dirt, hands gripping his shin and calf.

 _"Frank!"_ 214 grabbed for his brother and clamped his hands on the bullet wound, which — Leta eyed the brother. The bullet had penetrated the shin and calf and had at least gotten an artery, judging from the blood.

"He's going to bleed out." Abrams shifted his aim to 214. "I'd say you've got more pressing problems, boy."

Trembling, 214 raised his head to meet Abram's gaze, but kept his blood-stained hands clamped on his brother's shin and calf; blood dripped between his fingers, muddying the ground. His face a rictus of agony, the brother gasped for air, his hands clenched against the dirt.

 _No! No!_ Sarah threw herself at Abrams, striking at him with both fists. They impacted uselessly on Abrams's shields in small showers of sparks.

 _"Sarry! No!"_ 214 started up, checked himself, pressing his hands harder on his brother's leg; his arms shook with the effort. "Get out of here!"

 _Bad! Evil! No hurt! Mattie! Mattie!_

With his free hand, Abrams yanked at the cord; Mattie whimpered…and Sarah yelped, collapsed — then both children screamed when Abrams twisted the cord tighter.

"Go on, little bitch," Abrams said calmly. "Use your new playmate there to get me. I'm sure Joe won't mind. You'll kill him and then you'll both be stuck here, forever."

Sarah whimpered. _No. No kill. No kill Light!_

"He's hurting them," 214 whispered; his brother freed one of his hands and gripped at 214's arm. "Let them go, Abrams. Please."

Abrams ignored that, his gaze moving over the space. "Interesting. Very interesting. So this is what tied the brats here. I recognize those signs from the _Grimorium Verum._ I didn't think a bunch of nutcase Victorians would've known about that. A shame you broke it."

"Let the children _go._ Mattie and Sarah had nothing to do with any of this. Let them go."

Sarah pawed at Mattie's gown, trying to hug her sister and flinching away whenever her hands got too near the cord; Mattie clawed at her throat, whimpering. But Leta stared at 214. That was the last thing she'd expected him to say. She'd seen Sarah rush Dr. Lo upstairs; 214 apparently had that much control over her. But here, Sarah had rushed Abrams on her own. No orders, no commands, no control…

…and Abrams had said 214 had _broken_ the magic?

"Let her go so she can help you? I'm insulted that you believe I'm that stupid." But Abrams's gaze was back on the walls, the ground, the air. "Linked to the one in the attic. Very neat work. Two siblings, two spaces. A shame you broke this one, but the technique…yes. Useful." Then his gaze rested on the brothers. "And I just happen to have two more siblings to use for it."

The brother's breath hissed in. 214 bowed his head, his hands clamped around his brother's leg. But then…

"Joe," the brother said, through clenched jaw…then firmly removed both of 214's hands from his leg and the wound: a tight, blood-stained, brother-to-brother grip.

214 stared down at him…and his brother met the gaze and nodded.

"He'll bleed out," Abrams said. "That's an artery hit. Not to mention the other veins. I'm sure I got the shin, too."

"Let the children go," 214 said, breathing out. His gaze hadn't left his brother's, their brother-to-brother grip still tight, blood spurting freely onto the mud and dirt. "Set them loose, let them leave and go free…and me and Frank will agree to the…experiment. Willingly. The children won't interfere."

 _No! Fire! Mountain! Light! Light! No!_

Leta couldn't believe she'd heard that. "You _bound_ them, _"_ Leta snapped. "You were controlling them. We saw the hand bones. You were using those to bind Mattie —"

But the young man shook his head. "This place was the key to the binding. Only they could break it. The bones were like…like…Dumbo's magic feather. So they could get here and confront it. And Sarah broke it, herself." His gaze moved back to Abrams. " _Willing_ gives you a lot more magic to play with."

Leta stared. Truth. Absolute, total truth. 214 meant every word. There was no mistaking that feel.

Then 214 — _Joe_ — met Leta's gaze squarely….and nodded.

Openly amused, Abrams glanced at Leta. "Using his blood to bind these bitches and your brother to your promise?" Abrams said to Joe. "I'm surprised at you, Joe."

"I'm in," the brother gasped out; his gaze hadn't left Joe's. "Do it, Joe. Get the kids free."

Both of them, agreeing to that..that… _abomination_ , just for two ghosts? Leta's stare moved back and forth between the brothers — then she hesitated. There'd been something, just a flicker of emotion, from the brother, something Joe caught and understood…then it was gone.

"Not like you have much choice," Abrams said, still amused. "But, agreed, then." With a flick of his hand, he tossed the cord and bit of skull onto the dirt to land squarely in the center of the space. "The brats are more trouble than they're worth, anyway."

Nodding, Joe freed one of his hands from his brother's grip to rest it against the blood-soaked jeans. Eyes closed, Joe took a deep breath, as his fingers traced a gentle pattern against his brother's leg.

 _…get the kids free…_

Decision made.

The moment the children flinched back from Abrams, the moment Sarah and Mattie fled, crying, to the brothers' side, Leta grabbed Abrams's shoulder, right at the nape of the neck. Skin-to-skin, physical contact, touch-targeted…and Leta channeled through it, seizing Abram's mind in a tight mental grip.

Abrams froze, unhearing, unseeing, un-sensing.

"Get out of here," Leta snapped at the brothers.

They both stared at her, obviously not understanding.

"Don't think this makes us friends. It won't make you safe. I only do this for Mattie and Sarah." When the brothers still stared at her, Leta drew herself up, glared. "I said, _get out of here."_

Finally, his gaze still on Leta, Joe nodded, then tore off a strip of Frank's shirt to bind a tourniquet tight around his leg, as, gasping, Frank clamped his hands back on the wound. "Keep pressure up," Joe said to him, then turned towards the bared dirt.

"Hurry up," Frank said, through clenched teeth.

"What are you doing?" Leta said, suddenly suspicious.

"Dumbo's magic feather, like I said." Joe scraped at the dirt with a discarded garden trowel. "Sarah's here. Mattie's in the garret. There's a panel in the laundry room next to…to…Genesis that leads up to the other place. Mattie showed me. Their bones let them keep connection with me."

"So you can use them?" Leta started to relax her grip on Abrams. If that was the game…

"No." Joe had exposed small, pathetic yellowed bones, a hand, part of an arm. "So we can get them out of here. So we can get help to set them completely free." Quieter, "So they can go home."

 _Home?_ Sarah perked up. Both she and Mattie huddled together by Frank — Sarah's hands were laid on his. _Really home?_

"Narnia," Joe said to her. "The real, true Narnia, Sarry. That's home. Just like in the story."

 _That's not real, goop._ Mattie looked up. _It's just in the books. It's just a story._

"It's real, Mattie." Joe looked down. "I've been there."

Total, complete, honest truth, again, all of it. Leta re-tightened the mental grip. "Abrams won't remember this place. I'll make sure he forgets. That's all I'll do for you."

Gently, Joe picked up a few of the finger bones…and suddenly Sarah giggled.

 _Tickles!_

"Take care of them," Joe said to Leta. He helped his brother to stand and get past the junk pile — both children following, both looking happy and hugging the brothers, though Sarah kept looking back at Leta. Neither Joe nor Frank looked steady; they were distinctly wobbly, barely able to stand, let alone limp out, but they managed. Frank held his wounded leg up off the ground, and the brothers leaned against each other, each using the other for support as best they could.

Leta didn't care. She'd done all she was going to do for them. Only for Mattie and Sarah had she done this much.

The brothers still had a lot to answer for, with the destruction of Genesis ward, but Leta would let the higher-ups handle that.

One other thing, though.

With her free hand, she dug into her purse, pulled out _The Last Battle…_ and tossed it at Joe's feet. "Read that to them. They wanted to hear the end of the story."

Breathing hard, Frank steadied himself against one of the shelves as Joe knelt to pick the book up. "I know," Joe said.

Leta turned back to Abrams, so she could honestly say she didn't know where the brothers had gone…but then Mattie's whispery voice floated back, from somewhere near the basement door.

 _What's a Dumbo, goop?_


	21. Aftermath

_A/N: Yeah, an early post - I meant what I said about getting this posted before I fall silent for a week. Anyway, thanks to Caranath, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley, MoonlightGypsy, SunshineInTheGraySky, RangerLyn, and Wendylouwho10 for the reviews & comments!_

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Step. Breathe. Another step. Keep weight off his left leg. Ignore the agony. Ignore the blood soaking down his jeans and leg and into his sneaker, despite the tourniquet and rough bandage. Don't look, don't _look._ Pray the bones weren't jutting through the muscle and skin, no matter what it felt like. Clench back the cursing whenever Joe leaned too heavily on him by accident — or muttered something at the two ghosts of children who were supposedly following them…

Oh God. Stairs.

Frank choked on a sob of frustration. He couldn't — he just couldn't —

"Just a little further," Joe murmured, white-faced and trembling, sagging against the railing. "Just a little more. I've got the railing. One step at a time, Frank. You can do it."

Don't yell. Don't cuss his brother out. Frank could do this. One step at a time. He had no choice. That bitch of a doctor couldn't hold Abrams forever, and Frank didn't trust her to wait a second longer than necessary. Grab the other railing, divide his weight between his arm and his shaking, exhausted brother, pray Joe didn't collapse…

But then a fire fighter came through the ground-floor door, glanced towards the two idiots in the basement stairwell…then looked again and started shouting for help.

Hands were on Frank, on Joe, as helmeted and turnout-coated men hauled them up the stairs and into the lobby proper…and then Frank passed out.

Slowly, he came to, in bright sunshine. He was lying on pavement out front of the building, surrounded in noise, yelling, and chaos. People rushed by; others screaming, some shouting orders; the stench of burning wood, oil…meat…

"We've got these two," someone said nearby…and muzzily, as if in a dream, Frank recognized the voice.

"Tom…?"

Tom Walker leaned into Frank's vision. "Y'know, _boyo,_ when I said that about the Apocalypse, I was only _joking."_

" _Joe…!"_

Tom shoved him right back down. "He's right there, and he's being good, just like you need to be. Now be still and let us nice EMT's take care of you. Your leg's a mess."

"They cut his chest up," Joe croaked, somewhere to Frank's right.

"And _you_ need to shut up and be still, too,"Tom said over his shoulder, as he picked up an IV line.

An IV line…plugged into Frank's arm. Not fully understanding, Frank stared at it, then saw Tom inject something into the port…

Frank came to again inside an ambulance. At least, he thought it was an ambulance: it was square and boxy and all white inside, it was moving, he was strapped down on a stretcher, and a siren blared just outside.

"…you're an EMT?" Joe's slurred, exhausted voice.

" _Boyo,_ after all the excitement you two gave us in Circle Hills, I joined the county volunteer crew, and the Association paid for me to get certified in NYC, since I'm up here often enough. Our Center needs every hand it can get…you awake again, Frank?"

Shivering, cold, Frank blinked up. Tom leaned over him again, checking Frank's blood pressure and pulse. Everything seemed distant, hazy, and unreal. His leg throbbed; his chest itched. When Frank looked, his right jeans leg had been cut away, his shirt removed, and sterile dressings laid over both his leg and chest.

"C-c-cold." His teeth chattered. Frank swallowed, tried again. "Cold."

"Hang on." Tom reached over Frank's head, pulled a blanket out of one of the wall compartments, spread it over him. It didn't help.

His vision was blurry; Frank kept blinking, but it wouldn't clear, and finally, he turned his head. Joe lay on the other stretcher, an IV plugged into his arm; he looked half-asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.

"Joe said they hit you with scopolamine," Tom said. "Any idea how long ago?"

It was an effort to think; Frank considered that for a long moment. "Before…before all that blew. Twenty…thirty minutes. Joe, the kids…"

"Your friends are right there." Smiling, Tom nodded towards the end of Joe's stretcher. "And a pair of lovelier little ladies I've never met."

"Yeah, and listening to our Phoenix describe Dumbo to them has been a real treat, let me tell you," drawled another familiar voice, behind Frank's head. "That Sarah is one strong kid, if _I_ can hear her."

"Noah?" Frank tried to raise up — Noah Saalburg was an NYC Blade; he'd been one of Joe's teachers at Bay Area — but Tom pushed him right back down. "Both of you? Where _were_ you two? They were — I mean, I got —"

"Easy, _boyo,_ " Tom said quietly. "Even the Association can't magic away Manhattan traffic jams. We got lucky — our boys radio'd us about the fire, so we ditched the car on I-87 and they picked us up en route. We got there just as they were dragging you two out."

"Boys?" Frank was getting more and more confused; he felt dizzy, lightheaded, and sick, his heart pounding hard, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. None of this was making sense.

"This is their ambulance," Joe said. "Bronx has a _hospital."_

"Glorified ER," Tom corrected him. "And a backup EMT team for the Bronx area. More than what Bay Area has — we're tons more mobile — a bit less than NOLA. That's where you're going — Sarry, honey, he'll be okay. Really."

That was addressed to a spot at Frank's arm, where the IV was. A cool breeze was blowing across that arm…as if someone was playing "piano" up and down it…

Frank came to again in intense pain, freezing and shivering, his leg cramping, and he tried to yell for help, only for it to come out as a choked groan. A plastic tube lay across his face, blowing more cold air into his nose. Blurred, bright lights overhead; people moving past; long curtains partitioning him away from the rest of the room.

Warm hands were on him. "Easy… _easy."_ An older female voice, firm and calm. _"_ You're in recovery. Here." She spread a warmed blanket over him; the shock of heat made Frank gasp.

"Thirsty…" It croaked out. "Hurts."

A brief, muffled exchange, then the nurse helped Frank lift his head; she was a gray-haired battleship of a woman in dark blue scrubs. She held a paper cup to his mouth. "Small sips. It's just water. How bad's the pain, kiddo? Scale one to ten."

"Twenty," Frank whispered. Another muffled exchange, an interminable wait, then the nurse stood over him again, and he felt a tingling wave move up his arm, through his head, down through his body, leaving heavy, weighted relaxation and a promise of dreamless sleep in its wake.

"Just a small dose for now," the nurse said. "We'll give you the rest once you're upstairs."

"My leg…"

The nurse patted his shoulder, a warm, comforting grip. "Still there, all of it. Rest. Doze back off, if you need to. We'll get you settled whether or not you're awake."

The fourth time Frank woke, he was in a small, warm room, the walls painted a calming sandstone beige, and sunlight pouring through the open windows. His left leg was in a cast and in traction, his chest bandaged and sore. The bed was covered in comforters patterned in blue and green Celtic knot-work, the pillows thick and cozy, and a TV sat on top the low bureau along the opposite wall. If Frank hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was in a hotel room.

"You snore," Joe said.

Frank turned his head. Joe lay in the bed nearer the door. His eyes still dazed and unfocused, Joe looked pale, wan, and exhausted, though cleaner, his hair damp as if he'd showered — and he had an IV, too, his left arm bandaged.

"I figured you'd want the window seat," Joe said. "Being the early riser and all. I've been trying to negotiate for ear plugs, but…"

His gaze pointedly on Joe's arm, Frank said nothing.

" _Okay._ So I got a major lecture on yanking IV's out — the thing broke off in my arm, and I was lucky it didn't hit my lungs, all right?"

Frank still said nothing.

"And I'm _exhausted_. I haven't had solid food for a week, so this —" Joe held up the IV line, "is to get all that replaced and help my system get re-balanced. And…" He looked away. "They got me addicted. Morphine, heroin. Whatever else was in that crap. They used such high dosages…"

"And they had you a week," Frank said, and Joe nodded, still not looking at him. Great. Just what they needed: both of them stoned out of their gourds on pain meds. "What about the kids?"

"Outside."

"Outside? But —"

"But we run drug rehab and intervention here." Tom Walker stood in the doorway. "And the Bronx has a lot of bad memories and even worse hauntings, on top of all the gang and drug violence. So the building wards are hard and solid to keep all that out — nothing gets through, period. Our patients have a hard enough time with getting clean, without two little ghosts adding to the DTs. 'Bout time you're awake, Frank. Joe's been driving the nurses insane."

"There's a small park on the grounds," Joe said, ignoring that. "You can see it from the window. They've got lighter wards there."

"And those we could flex and let the kids in." Tom smiled. "They're worried about you two, but they're fine. Now…" Tom came further in, settled in one of the armchairs; he hesitated, then sighed. "Time to get serious, before Master Lin comes back in. First, I called Bay Area and let Josh know you're okay…and the bare-bone basics of what happened. He and Mar are both flying out here. And Mar's daughter, Kris, and someone called Jamie. They'll be here day after tomorrow."

Eyes closed, Joe breathed out a long, heavy sigh; Frank bit back a smile. Hopefully there was an empty room somewhere in the building — though having a possible audience wouldn't necessarily stop Jamie…or Joe, for that matter.

But then something else registered. "Master Lin?" Frank said, surprised. "I remember Tag telling us about him, after all the Circle Hills stuff. He sounded really old…."

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph — don't ever tell him that! Not unless you want to wind up back in the ER! But, bluntly, Healers are so rare, we can't afford to let them retire."

"He's just like Tag described him," Joe said. "He looks like an elf in full Mandarin robes, but he talks like Archie Bunker."

"Anyway, more serious," Tom went on. "I know neither of you are real copacetic at the moment, but this can't wait. You two have a decision to make."

Suddenly Frank felt far too old and exhausted himself. "Dad," Frank said.

Tom nodded. "From what you said earlier, from what Joe said while you were in surgery…I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. I liked your father, I really did. I can't believe…" Tom fell silent.

Frank didn't want to believe it, either…but now he looked at his brother. What _Joe_ had said?

Head bowed, Joe wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Anyway. We can run it a couple ways. First…you can disappear." Tom's gaze, his tone: flat, even, serious. "And I mean completely, without a word, without any further contact. It'll mean severing every tie you have with your home and moving out to Bay Area or one of the other Centers permanently. We'd send 'paths to your dad and aunt to enforce that belief — that you're both either dead or vanished in the CIA's hands."

"You didn't do that with Tag," Frank said. "With her parents."

"Believe me, we've tried. Tracking that son of a bitch father of hers was near impossible. But at this point, Hawk's able to handle the problem herself, if it crops up again — there's a reason she carries that k-bar, _boyo._ "

The unspoken implication: Tom had been in on the effort. Frank said nothing.

"You said a couple ways," Joe rasped. Eyes closed, arms crossed around himself. Shivering.

"I did," Tom said, still quiet, still serious. "Second option: you confront your father and find out the truth. My 'path's good enough to tell if he's lying. Then, based on what you find out, you decide what to do. Going back to your hotel, though, is out of the question — the feds are sure to be watching it, and right now, neither of you are in any shape to handle that."

"So…what…" Frank hazarded, "you bring Dad back here?"

Tom nodded. "And if it doesn't work out — well. We'll take care of it."

 _Take care of it._ Frank looked at his brother again — Joe was near tears — then bowed his head. That things had fallen to this point…that they were even seriously considering any of this… "God," Frank breathed. "God, God, _God…"_

Someone knocked on the door, then poked his head in: a burly redheaded man with an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. "Okay if I come in?"

Tom nodded at the newcomer. "Guys, this is Callahan. He heads Bronx Center. Cal, Frank and Joe Hardy."

"Pleasure's all mine." Callahan's voice was gravel grinding through a cement mixer. He came in, offered a beefy hand for the brothers to shake. "I figure I need to be in on this chat, but I'll clear out if you boys don't want me here."

"It's okay," Frank said. "It affects the Center. We understand that."

A nurse came in at that point to get vitals on the brothers; Callahan waited until she left. "I'll need the whole story. But first, what Tom was saying, with the feds. We can put you up here — and I'll extend that offer to your father, too, if he's clear."

"Bring Dad here," Joe said. Voice tight, eyes still closed. "I want to know. I have to know. I…I mean…" His voice broke.

"I understand, son," Callahan said gently. "And by the way, I'm one of the higher-ups, not just head of this Center. Whatever you need, whatever you have to do, it's cleared." His mouth quirked. "You might want to turn on the tube there. I'd say your reputation with us has just been made."

"Swell," Joe muttered. Despite everything, Frank choked on a laugh.

"Clear to bring the father here, Cal?" Tom said.

Callahan nodded. "Get moving. Feds are up to their armpits right now, so you've got a window to act. I'll keep 'em company." Chewing on the end of the cigar, Callahan waited until Tom left before settling his bulk into an armchair. "I'd like to be in on that chat with your dad, if you don't mind. I don't like tooting my horn, but I'm a helluva 'path. We'll get the truth out of him, one way or another."

Frank couldn't look at him. "Please," Frank whispered. "I…I don't think I could handle it alone."

"You're stronger than you think," Callahan said. "You're always stronger than you think. I'm looking at one young man who's survived five _days_ under the CIA's tender mercies…and at another young man who infiltrated one of their locked-down facilities and…well…best if I show you." Callahan got up, switched on the TV and fiddled with the channels until he hit one showing the local news.

Frank stared at the screen, recognizing the front of East River Harbor. Fire trucks, ambulances, police cars…patients, medical personnel, and others crowding around the front and in various stages of panic…the top two floors of the building in flames and not under any control at all…men in dark suits yelling at reporters…soldiers? _Helicopters?_

"I think Apocalyptic Act of God covers it real good." Callahan's grin was vicious. "All their records and paperwork and data from that place, whatever they had going on — it's all now in one unholy helluva shambles. That alone'll jigger 'em good for a few years."

"But it wasn't us," Joe said. "I mean, it wasn't just us. One of their own people — we didn't mean to do all that —"

"Oh, bullshit, son, you sure as hell _did._ Stupid jackasses brought it on themselves. Maybe next time they'll think twice before they try that shit." Callahan rumbled out a laugh. "They need to learn to ask politely, just like the rest of us. Everyone's been glued to the tube in the commons since the story broke. I finally gave in and ordered pizza for the whole crew. You'll be up to your ass—er, armpits in pizza yourselves, once word gets out who you are."

"Tons of mushrooms," Frank said, managing a grin at Joe.

"Done," Callahan said. "It'll have to wait until Master Lin clears it, though. Now…down to business, Blades. Gimme the whole story."


	22. Confrontation

**_A/N: this is not the last chapter, believe me, but it may be several days before I post the next one. Thanks to Caranath, Xenitha, TaoTheCat, CoverGirl7210, Barb, Leyapearl, DuffyBarkley, MDPerryfan, AlecTowser, LaurenHardy13, Wendylouwho10, Pen4lew, & Paulina Ann for the reviews, comments, favorites & follows!_**

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 _They'd rushed Frank in to the ER, but Joe hadn't followed. There was nothing Joe could do for his brother at the moment, except pray…_

… _and keep his promise to two frightened, excited, wary children._

" _This way." Noah came back out of the ER, handed Joe a crutch, and headed around the far side of the Center. It was a graceless, antique brownstone, flanked on one side by a burnt-out shell of another brownstone and on the other by a dilapidated tenement that didn't look far from the same fate. The other buildings surrounding it weren't much better._

 _Mattie and Sarah kept close to Joe, Sarah clinging to his jeans, Mattie turning around and around to look at the buildings. Silent, Joe focused on walking. The aching, restless cramps had been steadily getting worse; every limb trembled with exhaustion, and the pounding headache from the overuse of his Gift made the daylight painful. Even breathing hurt: his chest felt as if stones weighted his ribs._

 _Worse, he saw things out of the corner of his eye: other shadows around the dilapidated buildings, shadows that kept pace with the humans and two small ghosts on the sidewalk._

Bad, _Sarah whispered._

 _With a sigh, Noah gestured at the tenement. "Ugly, I know. We bought both those wrecks, but convincing the city to give us the permits to get rid of them has been an uphill battle."_

Get rid of 'em?Why? _Mattie had sounded surprised._ You don't live in 'em?

 _Mattie and Sarah stayed shy of Noah, though Joe didn't know why. Noah didn't look at all intimidating. The man was a Vietnam vet, black, wiry and on the small side — and both his legs had been blown off at the knee by a tunnel mine. He used two forearm crutches and artificial legs…and he was pure terror on the Blades' training ground._

" _They're wrecks, Mattie," Joe said. Even at the easy pace Noah set, Joe staggered; he felt as if he was trudging through sludgy, dirty water. "People shouldn't live in those things. They want to put something better in."_

" _Parks," Noah said. "We want more green space — the kids around here need real play areas, not the streets. Here we go."_

That's for _us?_ _Mattie whispered, awed._ All that?

 _The park was large and green, filled with trees and flowers. Closer to the Center were vegetable gardens laden with late-summer tomatoes and squash, but the rest of the park was open, sunny, and airy. Benches and picnic tables were spaced under the trees, and in the center of the green was a huge jungle-gym: a goofy dragon built of old tires, rope, plastic, and recycled car bodies._

Wall. _Sarah touched the wards and flinched back behind Joe._

" _They're scared of the wards," Joe said._

" _They can still hear me?" Noah said, and Joe nodded. "Okay. Kids…listen. Those are just to keep bad things out. They won't keep you in if you want to go wandering, but we can't guarantee you being safe if you do that. Understood?"_

Not home. _Sarah looked up at Joe._

" _Not yet, honey," Joe said. "Frank's hurt bad. He needs to get better first. And I'm…I'm just…"_

" _You need to get your ass in the ER, too," Noah said. "That's 'just' what you are."_

Sick. _Sarah touched Joe's hand._ Hurt.

Goop's too goopy to know when to stop. _Mattie flung her arms around Joe, hugging him. Shyer,_ Frank'll still read to us? He won't forget?

 _Despite his exhaustion, Joe smiled. "He won't forget. Go play. Me and Frank'll be back later. And then we'll help you with the rest."_

Home _._ Home!

" _Yeah," Joe said. "Home."_

 _He watched as Noah flexed the wards, enough to let Sarah and Mattie into the park proper. Once out of the shadows of the tenements and into a patch of sunlight, the children froze. Sarah turned, looked up…and up…and her squeal of glee rang through the park._

Sun! Mattie! Sun!

" _I heard that," Noah said softly._

 _Joe watched as Mattie and Sarah stared at the late afternoon sun, stretching their arms towards it — then, giggling, Sarah thwacked at Mattie's head and skittered away, jumping and leap-frogging through the trees. Mattie yelped, then chased after her sister, both girls giggling in an impromptu game of tag._

" _We've got a couple kids who are spirit-talkers," Noah said. "I'll get them out here so your two aren't alone."_

" _Yeah," Joe whispered, sagging against the crutch. "That's fine." Hazy with exhaustion, he turned, intending to head into the Center…_

… _then collapsed, unconscious._

 _# # #_

Joe tried to focus on what he was saying to Callahan. But he couldn't stay still. His arms and legs ached and cramped, with convulsive jerks at odd moments — part of the withdrawal, according to one of the nurses, Maude, a gray-haired battle-axe who'd scolded Joe on overusing his Gift, the perils of yanking IVs out, and the evils of not listening to nurses.

Now Joe sat on the edge of Frank's bed, gripping Frank's hand. Joe wasn't about to let go. He wasn't entirely certain this was real, that Frank was really alive, that Thatcher hadn't…hadn't…

"It's okay, brother." Frank sounded as exhausted as Joe felt. "It's okay. I'm here."

Swallowing the panic down, Joe forced his breathing to slow and deepen. It didn't help. Frank's grip tightened when Joe told of his attempts to call home and what Dad had said — if that had been Dad — but hearing about the burned body…no wonder Frank was equally freaked.

Callahan scowled on hearing that, then bowed his head when Joe rambled a bit on finding the sketchbook and Mattie talking about "Johnny". When Frank recounted what Abrams had said during the interrogation, Callahan slumped back in the armchair.

"Johnny Finnegan. Damn them all to hell."

"Your inside man?" Frank said.

"One of our best," Callahan sighed. "I'd wondered why we didn't hear about Joe until you called."

They were interrupted by the battle-axe nurse coming in, Master Lin right behind her: a short, elderly Chinese gentleman in Mandarin robes and an impish face.

"Master Lin, Maude," Callahan said amiably.

" _N_ ĭ _h_ ă _o,_ _"_ Frank said to Master Lin.

With a raised eyebrow, Master Lin gave Frank a deep formal bow with his hands steepled in front of his chest. "You speak-ee velly good Chin-ee, young white sir."

"Forget it," Joe said. "I already warned him."

"Awww, damn," Master Lin said, grinning — the fake accent vanished, replaced by thick Bronx. "So I suffered through that crap _Mask of Fu Manchu_ for nothin'."

Frank had gone red. "I didn't mean — I mean, I've been learning a bit of Chinese at Bay Area —"

"Oh, jeez, how could I take offense? You were only bein' polite. I do speak it fluently, if you want some practice while you're here. And you both will be here a couple weeks, at least."

Joe really hadn't wanted to know that. He just wanted to go home — Bayport, Bay Area, anyplace but New York City.

"So you're the ones who caused all the fuss uptown. If I'd known that before, I'd've raised my fees." Lin looked back at Callahan. "You owe the ward pizza, I believe."

Callahan rumbled a laugh. "I was waiting for you to give the okay for these two. Not fair if they have to smell all that and can't have any."

Lin waved that aside. "For Frank, no problem. Just eat extra meat to make up the blood loss. And next time, press _harder_. Another pint, and we'd be shipping you to Bellevue ICU."

Biting his lip, Frank looked at his cast.

"Your leg will be _fine."_ Lin sat on the edge of the other bed. "I Healed the critical damage, but you still needed stitches. Your shin splintered, but thankfully didn't shatter. It's set, and I'll help it heal faster. Four weeks in cast. I can't push it more than that, or the bone'll be weak. Fair enough?"

Breathing out heavily, Frank sank back against the pillows. "Thank God."

Standing up, Lin patted his shoulder. "You're welcome. Now, your chest — none of those cuts went to bone. You got my best needlework, too. Keep it clean and don't scratch. As for _you…"_

Joe had been relaxing, but Master Lin's tone barked out at him like Joshua's _drill-sergeant_ voice.

"Over here." Master Lin rapped the other bed. "And drop your shields. Now that I've had a chance to rest and _someone_ finally briefed me on what you've been through the past week…"

"Blame Tom and Noah," Callahan said. "I've just been finding out myself."

Swallowing hard, Joe staggered back to his bed. This wasn't Doctor Lo. It wasn't Doctor Mannheim. This was Bronx Center, not the feds…

Maude got under Joe's arm to help him, easing him down and arranging pillows and IV until he was comfortable. She was efficient and no-nonsense, unlike Leta's attempts at being motherly.

"We know you're scared, kiddo," Maude said. "Anyone would be, after the BS they put you through. But it's a lot faster if Master Lin can sense your body out with his Gift, rather than put you through CT scans and other crap."

Eyes closed, Joe forced himself to unclench around the tension in his gut and let his shields go, but flinched when Lin's wrinkled hand rested on his shoulder. He didn't want to know what would really happen. He didn't…

…warmth. Relaxation. All the tension melted away, as if he'd been wrapped in a soft quilt. "Oh God," Joe breathed. It was so unexpected, so…so… _needed…_

"Easy," Master Lin said. "I'm helping you relax. Easing the withdrawal symptoms. Maude — high levels of diacetylmorphine. Scopolamine. Sodium thiopental. Sodium amytal. Traces of LSD."

"My God." Frank sounded as if he was a long way away.

"I know," Joe whispered. "They got me addicted. I didn't want —"

"Stop that. Addiction is up here." Lin tapped Joe's forehead. "They got your body _dependent,_ that's all. That's purely _physical_ and easy to fix."

"Sons of bitches never care what they're doing with the drugs," rumbled Callahan. "All in the name of whatever goal they're trying for."

"Rapid pulse, blood pressure touch high — indications of _grand mal_ seizures…?" Master Lin sounded surprised; he brushed Joe's hair aside. Joe winced at the touch to his temple. _"Burns?"_

"I…I think they…they used…" Joe had to stop.

"Electroshock," Lin said. "And they didn't bother with the safety procedures."

Eyes squeezed shut, Joe nodded.

Lin said something in Chinese, short, sharp, and angry. His hand moved back to Joe's shoulders, calm and comforting.

"What he said," Frank growled. "Tripled."

"ECT messes with your memory," Lin said. "Withdrawal is setting in, too. At the levels I sensed, it'll be bad. We'll step you down slow. No diet restrictions, but nausea is common. Stay away from the greasy stuff."

"There went your pizza," Frank said. Somehow Joe managed to smile.

"Maude, half-dose diacetylmorphine right now. Check him in three hours." Master Lin patted Joe's shoulder again. "A couple slices of pizza won't hurt."

Laughter shook him. "Thanks," Joe said.

"But something else, too. Scopolamine, LSD — they increase suggestibility and lower your defenses, among other things. Including forcing the Sight way open, even for unGifted."

"I have the Sight," Joe said.

"Well, you've _really_ got it now," Lin said. "Until we wean you off all that crap, you're not to leave the Center. Stay under the building wards. Understood?"

Angry voices out in the hallway forestalled Joe's answer. He recognized one, even at a distance: Dad.

"Lin, Maude, we need privacy, please." After they left, Callahan got to his feet to stand near the window. "Just so you know — Tom hasn't told your dad anything about Joe."

Seeing Dad's honest, unfeigned reaction would tell them a lot…but…Joe looked down. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Keep in mind, both of you," Callahan said. "We'll back you, no matter what. You've got a home with us."

A place, maybe. It'd never be home. But at that point, Dad barged in, Tom right behind him.

Dad saw Frank first, the traction, the cast. "Frank — good _God_ , what happened?" Then Dad got past the corner of the entryway and saw Joe.

"Oh my God. _Joe…"_ Before anyone could say anything, Dad had grabbed Joe into a desperate, shaking bearhug.

Joe swallowed again and again, fighting to keep control — he wanted to break down sobbing. He didn't want the hug to end, ever. He wanted to scream and throw a tantrum like a two year old…then start raging at Dad over those phone calls, what Hammond had said, what those people had implied. Maybe they'd been lying, but..this…it couldn't be…but…

Dad pulled away to look Joe over, touching Joe's face, cupping his chin, brushing Joe's hair out of his eyes, just as Dad had when Joe was little. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Joe only sat there, struggling with himself. This was _Dad._ _Dad._ He'd always been there. He'd taught Joe and Frank all about detective stuff, had encouraged them, supported them, had always been so proud of them, had always made time to listen, to help…to goof off…to love…to care…

"Funny," Tom said. "I would've thought your first words would've been _You're alive_."

Dad turned, saw Callahan standing there, and started to his feet.

"Sit back down, Mr. Hardy," Callahan rumbled. "We've got some talking to do. And you'd better hope to God to that we don't catch you lying to your boys, because I'll beat you bloody myself before we throw you out."

Gone was the beefy, amiable Irishman. Joe stared: he'd never heard anyone speak to Dad like that.

"Who are _you?"_ Dad snapped. "What have you done to my sons? Frank, what's going on?"

"What did _we_ do?" Callahan studied Dad. "I wasn't expecting that one, I admit. Frank? Joe? Your show."

Not trusting his voice, Joe shook his head.

"I heard you and Hammond, Dad." Frank stopped, got visible control of himself. Then the words snarled out: _"Did you sic the feds on Joe?"_

" _What?"_

"You heard me. _Did you sell Joe out to the CIA?"_

"Oh God — how can you even _think_ that? _What have they been telling you?"_

" _They_ didn't tell me anything! I heard Hammond. I heard Abrams. _I heard you._ "

"The _feds_ tortured your boys," Callahan rumbled. "Tore Frank up. Shot Joe full of heroin and God only knows what other shite. Made him think Frank had been tortured to death by that rat bastard in New Orleans — and told him that _you,_ his dear loving father, had dumped him in the loony bin."

Dad stood there, but he wasn't looking at Callahan. Dad looked only at Frank and Joe.

"Dad…" Joe struggled to get the words out through the tears he was fighting back, "Dad, they told me. They said you gave me up because you couldn't —" But Dad was shaking his head. _"Dad, Hammond told me!"_

Dad breathed something that Joe didn't catch, then looked up. _"Harry_ told you?"

" _You_ told me. I tried calling! You…you said I wasn't your son!"

Total, utter confusion. "I _never_ said that! I haven't even spoken to you since — _"_

" _Dad, I heard you!"_

"He's telling the truth, Joe," Callahan said quietly. "He hasn't spoken to you since you left the hotel. Another CIA mind game."

Joe sagged back. God, he was so exhausted…and dealing with this…

Dad's gaze moved over Callahan and Tom. "Association."

One of Callahan's massive eyebrow's raised.

"I'm going to ask this just once more. _What have you done to my boys?"_

"Your sons are right there." Callahan nodded at the brothers. "Ask them yourself."

"Don't try that. I know about you people. What you tried to do to Nancy —"

"They didn't do _anything_ to Nancy," Frank said. "That was Rathbone!"

"Is that what they told you? I'm standing here listening to you two accuse me of…of…" Dad stopped, then, " _They almost got Joe killed in New Orleans and you expect me to believe them?"_

"They didn't," Joe said. "Dad, they _didn't! We told you!"_

"Joseph, you didn't tell me _anything!_ The only story I got was what that…Joshua…told me. And I know my sons. _I know you haven't told me the truth."_

"'For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again'," Tom murmured.

Joe flushed; Frank looked away.

Callahan sighed. "That's between you and your boys, then," he said to Dad. "But if the Association was guilty of anything that's running through your head right now, we wouldn't be having this chat. However…according to Frank, _Hammond_ told you Joe was dead and showed you a body to prove it. Not us."

"Hammond and Abrams," Frank said.

"Yes…he did," Dad said slowly.

"And Joe's sitting right there," Tom said. "But your sons think _you_ are in on it because that's what Hammond told _them_. Was he telling the truth about that, too?"

"Sounds like someone was playing both sides against each other," Callahan rumbled. "Look at your sons, Fenton. _Look at them."_

Frank bowed his head. One look at Dad's face…and Joe couldn't look at him, either.

"You're pushing them into a choice they don't want to make," Callahan said, more gently. "You've been through hell on earth the last few days, thinking Joe was dead. Your boys have been through that same hell nine times over, because they were told that their own father sold 'em out."

"You need to give them an answer, Fenton," Tom said. "Your boys are asking you for the truth. They're not asking us. They're asking _you."_

Dad took a deep breath. "I want to talk to my boys, _alone._ Without watchdogs monitoring everything they say."

"They're making sure you tell us the truth," Frank said.

"Truth? You mean, like you told me about New Orleans? Or why you're really out in San Francisco? _That_ truth?"

"Dad…"

Tom and Callahan looked at each other; Callahan shrugged. "The problem I see isn't truth — it's _trust._ I'll be ordering that pizza."

"Tons of mushrooms," Joe said; Callahan rumbled a laugh and left.

Tom, though, hadn't moved. "I'm not a watchdog, Fenton. Your sons can say whatever they want. But you might be wanting answers that they don't have yet. If you still want me to leave, I will."

"Oh, I want answers," Dad growled. "And you won't like the questions."

Tom shrugged. "If you're ready to ask the questions, you're ready for the answers."

"Right before you showed up, I got a call from Alan Kline. He was surprised I was in NYC. Evidently the…matter…I was supposed to handle wasn't going down for a couple months. But when I told him that Abrams had set it up — Abrams has been under investigation. He's got connections." Dad's gaze settled on Tom. "Dirty connections."

"Not with us. Your proof's right there." Tom nodded at Joe and Frank.

"The way Hammond talked," Frank said to Dad, "you knew Joe's Gifted. _You knew."_

Dad blew out a long, exhausted breath; he seemed to age years. "Yes. I've known since your mother died."

" _Why didn't you tell us?"_ It ripped from Joe's throat. The room was spinning; the aching and cramping were worsening. He shifted restlessly, trying to get comfortable.

Head bowed, Dad just sat there.

"And you still haven't answered us," Frank said. "Did you sic the feds on Joe?"

" _No!"_ Dad took Joe's hands in his own. "Never, _ever._ That's why I never told you, Joe. Laura — your mother claimed that she could see things. It was a joke between us. But then she said you could, too. Some of the things you said, after she died…I finally believed her." Dad's grip on Joe's hand tightened. "Men came after her funeral. They wanted to take you away."

"Men?" Frank said.

"Federal agents. Black Ops."

Joe sat, frozen silent in shock. Dad had _known…_

"What you didn't know, you wouldn't talk about," Dad went on. "You wouldn't show off to your friends. It'd look like it'd faded. You'd be safe."

"Not all Gifts work like that," Tom said. "Not the Sight, definitely."

"That wasn't what they wanted. One of the men involved claimed all kinds of crackpot things. I wasn't about to let him have my boys. I got hold of certain folks in Washington and made it clear that touching either of you wouldn't be good for their careers, health, or national security."

Wait…touching _either_ of them? But Frank wasn't Gifted…

"Problem is when they think the gain outweighs the loss," Tom said.

Joe's muscles suddenly spasmed, seizing up in stiff, painful cramps. Clenching his jaw around a gasp, he curled around himself, as he heard Tom call for Master Lin.

"He's fine," Master Lin said, after laying his hand on Joe's forehead; Joe slowly uncurled as the pain backed off. "It's the withdrawal. Maude's coming with the dose."

"I don't want it," Joe panted, hands clenched. Maude came bustling in with a hypodermic and a small bottle.

"Stop the Mister Tough-Guy act." Master Lin thumped Joe's shoulder. "You Blades, I swear. You don't want to go cold turkey, trust me. Not unless you like vomiting up your toenails every few hours."

"You're nuts if you think I'm going to share this room and listen to that," Frank said.

"You," Joe said, through gritted teeth, "are the most irritating, overbearing mother-hen I know."

"You're welcome," Frank said. "Now do you want Tom holding you down, or are you going to let Maude dose you peacefully?"

"Back up," Dad said. "I missed something. Dose him with _what?"_

"Heroin," Tom said.

" _Heroin?"_

"They got me hooked, Dad." Joe breathed through another painful spasm; he nodded at Maude, then closed his eyes as the drug rushed through him, making his muscles limp, his brain foggy. Yeah. Pleasure centers definitely going _whee._

"Heroin's a Gift killer," Frank said. "The feds were dosing him so he couldn't escape."

Dad's grip on Joe's hand tightened again.

"We'll keep him here a couple weeks," Master Lin said to Dad. "To step him down and make sure there's no lingering effects from the other drugs. And to make sure Frank's shin heals correctly."

"We'll put you up, Fenton," Tom said. "I have a feeling that your hotel isn't safe at the moment."

"Can't we go _anywhere_ without you ending up in the hospital for a couple weeks?" Frank said to Joe.

Somehow, Joe smiled. "Careful, or I'll tell Dad how that shin happened."

"Dad's going to find out anyway," Dad said. "Because my sons are going to tell me the whole story. _Several_ whole stories."

"New Orleans," Joe breathed…and suddenly his temper flared up, even through the drug haze. "Thatcher — Thatcher _targeted_ me because I was Gifted. Because I didn't know how to use it. If I'd known — _if you'd told us —"_

"Joe, don't," Frank broke in; Dad looked stricken. "Tag told us all that time, and we never believed her." Frank bowed his head. "A lot of it was my fault. Because you kept seeing stuff, and I kept ragging you about it."

"Not like I believed it, either," Joe said. The drugs made it hard to think, hard to care. "I wanted you to see it because I wanted you to explain whatever it was. Whatever I was really seeing. Because I couldn't be seeing it, not like I thought I was."

"Now you sound like Tag," Frank said. "Because that made absolutely no sense."

"Stavlin's still not a vampire, though," Dad said firmly, and that finally shook a laugh from Joe.

But then…

"You said both," Frank said; Dad looked up. "You said the feds wanted to take both of us."

"They did," Dad said. "But they never said why."

"I can think of a reason," Tom said, "and it's not good. How old were they, Fenton?"

"Nine, ten," Dad said.

"I saw Mom," Joe whispered. "She said she wanted to talk to Frank. That I had to tell him not to be scared."

"That was the Sight," Tom said gently. "The Gifts are always strongest with those closest to you. No, what I'm talking about — they'd want an easy way to control Joe. Threaten to harm one…" Tom let his voice trail off.

"But they were claiming Frank was dead." Joe swallowed, got control of his voice. "Making me dream it. Saying that I'd gone crazy, that I'd nearly killed Aunt Gertrude and that's why I was there."

Tom nodded. "The problem with adults is that we're tons more complex. It can be a lot harder to change our beliefs. I suspect they got something wrong. Missed some detail _,_ or you had some proof otherwise."

Joe looked at his brother. "The tattoo."

Frank breathed out a laugh. "Figures."

"Tattoo?" Dad said.

Uh-oh. "Um…well…Dad…"

"There could be a more innocent reason," Tom went on. "There's that thing about twins having a psychic bond. It's not a myth. And you two are as close as twins, from what I've seen."

"That's not psychic," Frank said. "You grow up with someone, you know _everything_ about them — that means you know what they'll do. It gets so fast on a subconscious level that folks just call it psychic."

Good ol' _everything-has-to-make-sense_ Frank…

"Waddles, feathers, quacks," Tom said. "It's a duck. The 'how' doesn't matter. It's still there. My point is that they may have wanted to test that kind of thing." When Frank looked stubborn, Tom sighed. "It's either that or the other. Or both. Or the third option."

The look on Frank's face… "Quack," Joe managed.

"Forget all that," Dad said. "What's this about a tattoo?"

When Dad latched onto something, there was no escape. "Well…um…"

"It's kind of hard to explain, Dad," Frank said, at the same time. "You see…"

" _Tattoo,"_ Dad said firmly. "Before I bring your aunt up here and let _her_ get it out of you."

No help for it. Joe fumbled at the gown ties — why did IV's always have to be in the worst place possible for bending your arm? "It's okay, Tom," Joe said, when he saw Tom was about to leave. "Everyone at Bay Area's seen it."

" _Oh?"_ Dad said…then, silence.

" _Wow,"_ Tom said finally. "You've just convinced me to get one, I'll say that. Who did that for you?"

"His girlfriend designed it," Frank said. "Jamie Hollis."

"Jamie…wait… _that_ Jamie? The one who did the art show about…?"

"Yeah," Frank said.

"The Met got that show last month. Bay Area warned us about it, which means most of us saw it." Tom grinned. "You're a lucky guy, Joe."

The tattoo swept around Joe's chest, under his left arm and up his back, a phoenix in flight stretching towards a swirling sun. The colors glowed, rich oranges, blazing reds, creams, golds, with touches of blue and green that made it all look like stained glass. It covered most of Joe's scars from New Orleans, the waxy skin, the deep slashes, the network of razor cuts, incorporating them into the design so nothing looked out of place.

Dad cleared his throat. "You…er…realize that when your aunt sees that, your life'll be in immediate danger."

Exactly what Frank had said. Joe looked over at his brother; Frank was grinning.

But then Dad's gaze sharpened. "You said your girlfriend designed it. That crazy young lady back in San Francisco?"

Joe only grinned.

"That's what I thought," Dad said dryly. But then he leaned forward, enough to grasp Frank's hand as well as Joe's. "Now. You two owe me some stories…and I owe you some explanations….

"…and I'll believe you. I promise."


	23. Reunion

_A/N: A short chapter just to reassure everyone I'm still alive, and yes, I made it through the surgery, and yes, this tale will be finished in a couple more chapters. However, what was just supposed to be a one-week hospital stay turned into a month-long nightmare of additional surgery, infection, and incision de-hiss, with a long, long time afterwards recovering. Thanks to Wendylouwho10, Caranath, AlecTowser, Barb, SunshineInTheGraySky, Paulina Ann, DuffyBarkley, Tbookworm, GDixonForeman2929, Jlttnbookworm, and Nana-tama for the reviews, favorites, and follows, and double-thanks to those who followed me on Facebook (sorry, I don't remember the match-ups with the real names; drugs are bad that way) and sent me letters & cards of encouragement._

 _And this chapter's for Caranath, who insisted that some things from the episode needed to still be in the tale.;)_

 _# # #_

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_

It'd been less than forty-eight hours, and already, Joe was ready to kill his brother.

Well, okay, not _kill_. But dumping a pitcher of ice water with extreme prejudice, followed by water balloons — that was legal, though potentially had more blow-back, given Frank's cast.

Joe had gotten too used to having his own room, that was the problem. Now, forced into sharing again at Bronx Center — _cramped_ Bronx Center, where it'd been made plain that sharing with _only_ Frank was _luxury_ — and worse, Frank had been forced immobile by traction until his leg set to a certain point. Hopefully this afternoon would be that freedom point, if Master Lin got the time to schedule a healing session.

At least Frank — godawful-early-morning-riser Frank — was finally asleep, thanks to a restless night and a morning dose of Demerol.

But he was snoring.

Gritting his teeth, Joe settled for opening the window. Third floor, and it overlooked the park out back. He could see the little ghosts, Sarah and Mattie, below and waved — Bronx Center's hard wards wouldn't let them in, but they could see each other just fine. Joe made a point of checking on them every couple hours, even at night, much to Frank's annoyance.

Well, what else was he _supposed_ to do? Joe was tethered to the IV pole, thanks to the withdrawal regimen, and wasn't allowed to leave the building. He could walk, and he'd spent yesterday exploring, between doses of the drugs, once his head stopped spinning from the initial hit, but the first two floors of Bronx Center were devoted to their ER and drug rehab and mostly off-limits. The other floors were a mix of private rooms and similar spaces that Bay Area had, though cramped and shabby. There was an open lounge on fourth floor for the TV, with one wall of shelves mostly filled with magazines, but Joe wasn't much of a TV watcher. They did have one of the brand-new Atari VCS game-things hooked up to it — with folks gathered around to cheer on someone attempting _Breakout —_ but there was a clipboard attached to the TV to sign up for times…and the schedule for the next week looked full up.

Though Joe did lay some of his nightmares to rest by searching through the magazines to find that issue of _Time_ and reassure himself of the true contents of that article. There, top left of page 49, the fuzzy, black and white pic of _Sophie Lemoine, age 14_ …

Not Frank. Not ever Frank, ever.

Now, staring out the window, Joe couldn't help smiling. Sarah and Mattie had gotten a small circle of new living friends. Noah hadn't been exaggerating: one of the spirit-talking kids down there was Noah's own daughter, Nicole. Joe wasn't sure how they were going to explain to the living kids when Sarah and Mattie finally left.

His gaze fell on his duffel bag. Oh. Yeah. _That._

Tom and Dad had managed to raid their hotel room and brought back the luggage, without tipping off potential fed surveillance. To Joe's dismay, his duffel had a faint, baby-powdery aroma. But Frank had been grinning, so Joe had ignored him and ignored the duffel bag, not wanting to give his brother any more ammunition in their ongoing war of sibling rivalry.

But now, Frank was asleep.

Joe eased off the window sill and limped over to his duffel bag, which sat on the bureau next to the TV. He unzipped it as quietly as he could, then clamped his mouth shut before the frustrated groan got loose. The cap had come off, the atomizer looked to have been jammed, and his duffel bag and remaining clothes now smelled faintly of _Baby Soft_.

He'd gotten it for Jamie the day before he'd been grabbed. The pretty Asian clerk had assured him the perfume was all the rage, but Frank had been smiling that smug Older-Brother-knows-better smile which made Joe instantly suspicious. Then again, Frank had played the reverse-psychology game before, and he'd been trying to steer Joe to another bottle that stank thickly of roses, a scent Joe _hated._

Still, Frank wouldn't sabotage Joe's entire wardrobe, not if that meant Dad might make him do laundry to clean up the mess. No, this had to be just dumb, bad luck.

Maybe.

Frowning in concentration, Joe worked at the atomizer, managed to pop it from the bottle, and scrutinized the mechanism. Not too bad; the leak had been small, and the bottle was still mostly full. Probably fixable, if he could get a pair of needle-nose pliers…

Hands grabbed him from behind.

Joe yelped — and dropped the bottle.

It didn't hit his duffel. No, it had to hit the edge of the bureau and _splatter,_ all over Joe's jeans and shirt, then hit the carpet, soaking Joe's sneakers.

The grab had turned into a tight, desperate hug, rocking Joe back and forth. "Oh my God. You're alive, you're _alive_ — _phew_. What is that _smell?"_

Jamie.

Joe didn't care that he smelled of however a perfume company thought a baby smelled or that he would spend several hours washing his clothes multiple times to get the smell out. He tried to get his arms around her for his own desperate, oh-so-needed embrace…

But Jamie fended him off. "Not smelling like _that,_ you don't, my Fluffy Evil Minion — _Baby Soft?_ _Really?_ What on earth possessed you to get _that?"_

Movement out of the corner of his eye: Frank was wide awake. Grinning.

The bottle lay on the floor, in the middle of a big, _Baby-Soft-_ stinking puddle. Joe picked it up: still about a fifth of the bottle left. So much for a surprise gift for Jamie.

But before he could dump it over Frank's unbroken leg, Jamie grabbed Joe back into that tight, desperate embrace, startling him into dropping the bottle again and splattering the rest of the perfume over them both. It didn't matter. Joe buried his face in her hair, holding on and not letting go.

Then Jamie pulled away, just enough to stare into his face as, frowning, she ran her hand over his cheek and jaw.

"What?" Joe said.

Jamie leaned in close to breathe into his ear. "You really need to shave, my Fluffy Minion. Really, really."

With a laugh, Joe only pulled her close again, silencing her squeak of surprise with a desperate, hungry kiss.

No, he would never let go, ever…


	24. The Last Battle

_A/N: This chapter is actually part of the prior; I separated them out as individual posts as I wasn't sure when I'd get this part done, and didn't want to leave folks hanging any longer (especially not the folks who've been poking at me on Facebook to **GET WRITING NOW** ;) ). Thanks to Caranath, MoonlightGypsy, Jittnbookworm, J, Paulina Ann, Leyapearl, and DuffyBarkley for the reviews  & comments & welcome-back's!  
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Frank wasn't sure about this, at all. He wasn't Gifted. Ghosts were _monsters,_ and Frank didn't care what Kris claimed. Even she said that most hauntings were angry and scared, and when angry people had no control over their situation — it never ended well, not in Frank's experience. Especially with children involved: children were never as innocent or nice as adults kept making them out to be.

But Joe had asked. Joe had promised. And they'd helped him. They'd helped his brother.

With effort, Frank brute-forced his wheelchair along the sidewalk in the late afternoon sun. Mar, Joshua, Kris, and Jamie had gotten in about noon, after taking an overnight flight from San Francisco. Both Joshua and Mar were closeted with Dad and Callahan — the last two days had been rough, purging a lot of the anger and shame that had built since New Orleans, and even rougher trying to tell that whole story. Let Joshua and Mar take over for a while; let them handle more of the explanations.

Kris, though, was sleeping off her jet lag, and Jamie…well, Jamie was with Joe.

At first, Frank hadn't been about to leave the room, despite the thick stench of _Baby Soft_ , not when there was such a glorious opportunity to tease the daylights out of Joe. But then Jamie had reached into the shopping bag she'd brought with her and revealed the one thing that would make being confined to the same small room with Joe for the next couple weeks bearable.

A new Atari VCS, complete with _Space Invaders_.

"Leave for a couple hours," Jamie had said to Frank, "and it's yours."

Bribery on that level just wasn't fair. But Frank had eyed his cast, then had Jamie go for Master Lin to make sure it was safe to get out of traction.

Out here in the bright sunshine and trees, Frank was now glad Jamie had forced the issue. He had _The Last Battle_ in his lap, along with a handkerchief wrapped around two sets of hand bones. "To help," Joe had said, but Frank hadn't asked for specifics. He didn't want to think about that too much. Things were spooky enough as is.

Bronx Center's wards were meshed with the walls and electrical system, according to Tom, and didn't extend beyond them; they were "hard wards" in that they couldn't be flexed or adjusted to let things through, period. The Center had green space around it: trees and benches, the ubiquitous hot dog and ice cream vendors on the outer sidewalks, and a large park at the back, which did have softer, flexible wards tied to the trees and fence. Luckily the park had brick walkways through it and along the building-side, and Frank managed to get to one of the large trees closest to the Center. Hopefully no one would overhear him…or would just assume Frank was crazy and stay away.

"Mattie, Sarah," Frank said softly, "I can't see you, and I can't hear you…but…I'm here. I've got the story for you."

He waited, unsure how he'd tell if they were there. He'd felt some things in the asylum, but he'd been doped heavily on scopolamine at the time. They'd given him a bit of Demerol here to help with the pain of his broken shin, but somehow Frank didn't think it'd have the same effect.

A trio of living children came running over; one was Noah's daughter, Nicole, a bright-eyed twelve-year-old with hair corn-rowed and threaded with pink and white beads, dressed in a Yankees t-shirt and cut-offs. And a spirit-talker, according to Noah.

"Mattie says you're supposed to read them a story," Nicole said. Then, to the others, "He's a Blade like Daddy."

Being equated with Noah, even by a child, was a warm glow in Frank's chest. He held the small paperback up. "Yeah, I promised. I'm Frank. Mattie and Sarah are here…?"

Nicole's eyes lit up. "Oooooh, that's the sad one, where they all —"

"Don't give it away," Frank warned. "Where are they? Can they hear me okay?"

"Right in front of you. And Mattie just called you a goop." Nicole pointed at a spot directly in front of his wheelchair as the other kids giggled. Nicole cocked her head, as if listening. "Sarry says — I think she's asking if Joe's okay. That's his brother," she said to the others. "He's a Blade, too."

For a moment, Frank wondered if it was possible to introduce a couple turn-of-the-century ghosts to _Space Invaders_. Smiling, he nodded. "He's fine. It'll be a couple weeks before they let him out, though. He's —" Frank stopped.

In the bare dirt at the roots of the tree, directly in front of him, someone was drawing a heart — someone he couldn't see. The dirt moved and shifted, exactly as if a small finger played there.

Frank held very still. He wasn't going to move. He wasn't going to react.

"It's okay to be scared," Nicole said to him. "I was scared, too, when I kept seeing people that weren't there, until Daddy helped me. It's just Sarry."

Was this what Kris would've been like at Nicole's age, if she'd had better parents and a couple big brothers who'd actually believed her? Would she have told them about Mom?

Not that it would've mattered. Frank had to be honest with himself. He still would've freaked out; look what'd happened when Joe had tried to tell him, after all.

Then he froze again. Something had touched his right hand — was still touching it, over and over, like a small, chilly breeze…

…no, some _one._

Okay. Be calm. Frank took a deep breath. "Who's touching my hand?"

"Sarry. She keeps saying _Read! Read!_ And Mattie says if you're scared now, you're an even goopier goop than Joe," Nicole said.

That made Frank smile. Proof enough, then, that it was real and not Joe hallucinating, after all. Not that he'd doubted his brother, but…well…

"Can we listen, too?" said another of the trio, a chubby Asian girl about nine, her hair cut in a bob. "We'll be good."

"Is this the one with the lion? That's for little kids!" That was a white boy, about ten, with dark hair shaved into a near-crew cut.

"Not that little. It's one of my favorite books." Frank dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill, handed it to Nicole. "Here. If you would, please, get me a Coke. And let everyone get ice cream and come back. My treat."

"That's rude," said Nicole, with a glance at the spot in front Frank. "We'd be eating in front of Mattie and Sarry and they can't have any."

Then all three kids fell silent at the exact same time…then erupted into explanations of what ice cream was and what it tasted like, all directed at the spot in front of Frank's wheelchair. It was eerie, yet so…so… _normal…_

"Maybe I can help with that," said a quiet voice behind Frank — Kris.

There was a startled group _eep_ of breath. Nicole jumped, then looked guiltily at the Mattie-and-Sarry spot.

"It's okay," Kris said. "I can see them, too. You're Noah's kid, right? Nicole?"

"This is Kris," Frank said to the kids, living and not. "Me and Joe's tagalong. I thought you were sleeping?"

"I'll get over it. Josh says jet-lag's just a frame of mind —" Kris stopped, blinked, stared at the Mattie-and-Sarah spot. "Um…right. Yeah. That's me. Big brother, you and Joe have to stop telling everyone that 'tagalong' business. It's ruining my rep — one of your girls just called me _the goop's tagalong sister."_

"That's Mattie, I think."

"Go get the ice cream," Kris said to the living kids. "And…um…bring me back a double-dip chocolate cone and a Coke, too. Since Frank's paying."

"You're welcome," Frank said.

Kris waited until the kids had run off to the sidewalk vendors, then settled into the grass beside Frank's wheelchair. "So…um…introduce me? I tried to get a description off Joe, but he and Jamie are…um…busy."

"I'll bet," Frank said, grinning.

"She was kicking his butt at _Space Invaders._ " Kris toyed with a stick. "That's what it sounded like, anyway. I didn't think Joe _knew_ that kind of language."

If it was that kind of language, Frank doubted it was _Space Invaders._ He opened his mouth to say so, shut it, opted for the easy way out. This was Tag, after all. "Well…you wouldn't want to be in there anyway. Not until Joe cleans up the perfume. Uh…Sarah's the older one. She's got bad injuries and can't talk very well, according to Joe. Mattie's the chatty one."

Kris's gaze slid to the Sarah-and-Mattie spot. "I know he can't, Mattie. She's kinda upset over how you described Sarah, big brother. Mattie's saying _Sarry talks real good, it's you being stupid —_ um, she keeps calling you 'goop'."

"That's not fair," Frank said. "I can't hear or see you, Mattie. I'm only going on what Joe says."

"Um…you want to?" Kris said.

That brought Frank up short. "I don't have the Sight."

Kris shook her head. "The Sight just makes it easier. It's like seeing stars."

Frank just looked at her. He wasn't going to say it.

"Um…you know how you can see fainter stars by not looking directly at them? It's the same thing." When Frank continued to stare, Kris thumped the arm of the wheelchair. "Here. Stare here, big brother. Like the splatter-vision Mar taught us for bow-hunting. Focus _here_ , but pay attention to where they're at without moving your eyes. Mattie, Sarah, stand still a moment, okay?"

"Tag, I'm not Gifted," Frank said slowly, unsure if she'd understood him. "You know that."

Kris sighed impatiently. "Lots of people see ghosts without being Gifted, Frank. But it's like stuff you think is shadows and stuff. Stuff you're not sure what you're seeing, I mean. The Sight just makes 'em really clear."

Frank swallowed, and swallowed again. He'd just said, after all…but he hadn't meant for Tag to take him up on it…he didn't really want…did he?

He was babbling to himself. He'd always prided himself on logic, on staying skeptical when everyone else got taken in by obvious trickery, on adhering to science and fact. He'd always demanded proof, and now Tag was offering exactly that.

Well, he'd asked for it.

With a deep breath, Frank focused on the arm of his wheelchair, the exact spot Tag had thumped, and tried to watch the spot out of the corner of his eye without actually looking at it. Nothing — no, wait. There was a shadow, what looked like the edge of a nightgown with a pair of feet…

Startled, Frank turned his head. No one there. Heart pounding, he swallowed hard, forced himself to breathe slow and deep to calm down. Ghosts. Ghosts were _monsters…_

Something was moving in the dirt again — big, slow, awkward letters:

 _GOOP._

It startled Frank into a laugh…then he couldn't stop smiling. "I thought you didn't know how to read, Mattie."

Kris tilted her head. "Um…she says Nicki showed her that word. And they've been teaching them the alphabet. And are you're ever gonna read the story or just sit there like a…um…she's calling you some stuff I don't know."

"Chumpy goopy hawkshaw?" Frank said dryly.

"And…um… _bimbo._ "

It was hard to think of monsters when the supposed monsters were calling him _bimbo_ and drawing hearts and insults in the dirt _._ "Uh, yeah. Mattie, we're waiting on everyone to come back, okay?"

"Be patient, kiddo," Kris said to the Mattie-and-Sarah spot. "I might be able to help you and Sarah taste ice cream. You'll really like that. _"_

"You can?" Frank said.

Kris shifted, looking uncomfortable. "It's kinda mixed in with the stuff I told you about with Nancy, big brother."

Understanding dawned, and Frank gripped her shoulder, support and comfort both. His and Joe's little tagalong and that odd, scary Gift she called _tapping._ It made sense — if she could step out so easily and pull others out with her, she might also be able pull others _in._

Which was even scarier, thinking about it. Hopefully Tag had thought it through, dangers and all. But he wasn't going to say so, not in front of Mattie and Sarah.

At that point, Nicole and the others came running back, licking their fingers and trying to balance all the treats without spilling them. The boy handed Frank and Kris bottles of Coke, as Nicole gave Kris the chocolate ice cream and handed Frank the change.

"He didn't have cones," Nicole said, as she and the others settled into the grass with their ice cream: double- and triple- scoops of ice cream, covered with sprinkles, M&M's, and cherries.

"That's okay," Kris said. "Here — Mattie, Sarah, sit right by me. Let the others have the front spots. That way Frank can see you while he's reading to them."

Breathe. Stay calm. He hadn't really needed to know that. But Frank focused on the book, waiting as the kids settled, watching in that odd corner-of-the-eye thing as Kris patted her knee, as two indistinct shadows reached to touch and Kris took a slow, careful spoonful of chocolate ice cream…

And simultaneously, all three living kids giggled and laughed, followed by Nicole's "See? See? We _told_ you!"

At that, Frank looked at Kris. "Worked?"

She gave him one of her all-too-rare, small smiles.

Answer enough. Smiling himself, Frank took a long swig of Coke, waited for everyone to quiet, then opened the worn, dog-eared paperback and started to read, watching out of the corner of his eye as the two little shadows crept closer to listen:

" _In the last days of Narnia, far up to the west beyond the Lantern Waste and close beside the great waterfall, there lived an ape…"*_

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 _* From "Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle", by C.S. Lewis_


	25. Home

_A/N: here we are, the next-to-last chapter. Thanks to Victor A November, Drumboy100, DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, Caranath, Paulina Ann, and Leyapearl for the reviews, comments, favorites, and follows! This tale's been a heavy emotional ride for me, in more ways than one.  
_

 _Also, the "first book" of the Narnia series that Kris refers to is "The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe". Modern editions now put the series in chronological order (ie, "The Magician's Nephew" is first), but for me & everyone of my generation & older, TLTW&TW will always be Book #1._

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" _But you are now looking at the England within England, the real England, just as this is the real Narnia. And in that inner England no good thing is destroyed…"*_

In the shade of a trio of ash trees, Joe listened to Frank readto Mattie and Sarah. Joe had finally been allowed outside yesterday, at least within the bounds of the park, and the withdrawal symptoms had faded to only the occasional ache, easy enough to endure without needing any more drugs. The moment Joe had limped past the Center's hard wards, Mattie and Sarah tackled him with hugs — though Joe felt only chills — and insisted on him sitting with them in the grass.

The living children had gotten restless and run off to the swings. Joe was glad they weren't in earshot; he really didn't want to tell them Mattie and Sarah had to leave. The Narnia story was almost done, and tomorrow Kris and everyone from Bay Area had to leave. Joe wanted to go with them — with Jamie — but Dad had talked him and Frank into going home for a week before SFSU classes started, to reassure all the family and friends that Joe was still alive.

It was time for Mattie and Sarah to go home, too.

Sketchbook out, Jamie sat beside Joe as she drew Sarah and Mattie in pastels, adding color to the little gray ghosts who hung onto Frank's wheelchair and every word he read. Jamie didn't have the Sight and certainly wasn't a spirit-talker, but she was using her Empathy to see through Joe's eyes — and to his own surprise, Joe didn't mind.

Funny, before New Orleans, he would've freaked major if Kris or Mar had proved the whole 'path thing and implied doing anything inside his head. But now here he was, accepting that Jamie was there. No big deal, nothing to worry about.

Admit it. He _wanted_ Jamie there.

"I want you there, too," Jamie murmured, then smiled up into his eyes.

"… _Your father and mother and all of you are — as you used to call it in the Shadowlands — dead. The term is over; the holidays have begun. The dream is ended; this is the morning…"*_

Movement caught Joe's gaze again: Kris had come out from the Center. She stood a moment, looking around, then spotted them and came over, halting behind Frank.

Frank's reading wound down; the story ended. But Frank didn't look up from the book. Joe got the distinct impression his brother was watching Mattie and Sarah out of the corner of his eye.

Then more movement caught Joe's attention, out of the corner of _his_ eye. Someone leaned casually against the tree nearby, as if listening. Joe turned to look: no one there. Odd.

"The End," Frank said, smiling. "Or the beginning, the way Lewis writes it."

 _That's it?_ _That's how it ends? They all died?_

Another mystery: Joe wasn't a spirit-talker, either. How was he still hearing Mattie and Sarah? Maybe his brain had tuned in and wouldn't tune out. If all those drugs the feds had forced into him had opened his head permanently, Joe was going to find a deep hole in the middle of the desert and _hide._

Bad enough seeing such things — that caused enough problems, even before he'd believed it was all real. But _hearing?_

 _But…but…everyone died! That's not fair!_

"Well, no," Joe said. "They're alive in the real Narnia, Mattie. Aslan says that. No good thing dies there and everything you love lives there forever and ever." He looked up at Frank. "Mattie's upset because everyone died."

 _Home,_ Sarah whispered. _They go home._

"The really unfair thing is Susan," Jamie said, as she colored in Mattie's hair, a bright, vivid red. "I mean, she's left behind while everyone else gets heaven. Just because she grew up."

"Um…because she stopped believing," Kris said, and Sarah swiveled, breaking into a wide, goofy grin. "Everyone else grew up, too, but they never lost their belief in Aslan."

"Hmph," Jamie sniffed. "Apologist."

 _Treats! Bird give treats!_ Sarah scooted over to Kris, wrapping arms around Kris's knees.

 _But it's a story._ Mattie still sounded upset. _He could've made it fair. They didn't have to die!_

"So us skeptics are doomed, you mean," Frank said, smiling, to Kris.

Looking a little dazed and unfocused, Kris eased down to the grass; she had a Mounds bar in her hand. "Mattie, did you know Lucy's a real person? She's actually still alive."

 _What? Really?_ Mattie gaped at her.

"Cross my heart." Kris made an X over her chest with two fingers. "She's Lewis's goddaughter. Remember the letter that Lewis writes to Lucy? He wrote the stories for her when she was your age."

 _There weren't never no letter._ _The nice lady never read that to us._

 _Treats!_ Sarah was now cuddling up against Kris. _Treats, Bird, please?_

"Something about Lucy being too old for fairy tales." Joe said, smiling a little at Sarah calling Kris _bird_. "I remember that. Mattie's saying it's not fair they all died," he added, to Frank.

"The letter's in the first book." Kris worked open the Mounds wrapper. "I'd go see if they've got it and read it to you, Mattie, but I don't trust my feet right now. Yes, Sarry, treats. Go ahead."

"You look pretty wobbly," Frank said. "You okay?"

"Took a pre-emptive dose of my meds. Since we're going to be doing this, I wanted to try to head the migraine off. Josh is bringing down the stuff."

 _You're doing what? What stuff? What's a my-grain?_

"I knew Lucy was real, but I didn't know she was still alive," Frank said.

"It's real sad," Kris said. "She was diagnosed with MS years ago. Like you, Sarry. She even looks a bit like Mattie, from the pics I've seen. A migraine's a really bad headache, Mattie."

 _Sarry don't got no whatchamacallit. And you goops ain't told us what you're doing! You're talkin' grown-up!_

Kris had taken a bite of candy bar. Her hand on Kris's knee, Sarah bounced and squealed with glee.

"Mattie doesn't know what MS is," Joe said to Frank, who'd looked confused — Frank was only getting the living part of the chat. But then Joe stopped: the shadow at the corner of his vision was back. This time, though, he didn't turn. He watched it: whatever it was seemed to be watching him and the two children.

"It's a sickness, Mattie," Frank said towards the general spot the children were in. "It makes you hurt really bad and you have a lot of trouble walking and talking. Tag, how do you know? Sarah's not…uh…"

"It's an echo," Kris said. "Um…a body-memory in the spirit that's hitting my Heal, just a bit. Um, I can't explain better than that, big brother, I really can't." But Kris's gaze was hard on Joe.

 _Stop talkin' grown-up!_ Mattie was on her feet, hands balled into fists. _Tell me what you're doing!_

Joe swallowed. He couldn't dump the explanation on their tagalong's shoulders. He'd made the promise. Mattie and Sarah were his responsibility. "You wanted to go home, Mattie, remember? It's time for you and Sarah to go home."

Mattie backed away, groping for Sarah's hand.

"That's what Kris's here for." Joe held Mattie's unsettling shadow-gaze, trying to put sympathy and care and…yes…love…into his voice. "I told you my sister could help you. Tag's going to help you go home."

 _Not go._ Sarah grabbed Mattie's hand and scooted away from Kris. _Not go! Stay! Stay!_

 _We wanna stay._ Lower lip thrust out, Mattie hugged her sister. _We can't leave! We can't!_

"Oh no," Kris muttered.

 _We wanna play with Nicki and Angie and Davy and be out here in the sun with trees and ice cream and Narnia and everything and…and…_

 _Noooo! Nooo!_

"But you won't," Kris said. "They'll grow up. You won't. They'll leave you, and you'll be stuck here."

 _No! They'll be our friends forever and ever! We can't leave! You can't make us!_ Mattie was howling, her and Sarah's distress and rage ringing through Joe's skull.

 _Nooo! No! Nooooo!_

Joe raised his hand slightly, forestalling whatever Kris had been about to say. "You're right," Joe said. "We can't make you. But…Mattie, Sarry, listen. You hated the hospital. You wanted me to get you out. Remember how that was? And there was that bad place that scared you so much. Remember?"

Now Sarah was keening, whispery, anguished moans.

Mattie hadn't let go of her sister. _So? That's not here, goop! You killed it!_

"Well…no, that place isn't here," Joe said. "But it's not the only one. Look over there, across the street. You can see them, like I can."

Even Frank glanced over, his expression uneasy, and Joe suspected that Frank had tried looking for them, just like he'd learned to see Mattie and Sarah. Darker shadows, taller and adult-shaped, hung out on the sidewalks of the run-down tenements. They watched the park with thick, greedy hunger that made itself felt even through the wards, remnants of the violent deaths, OD's, and poverty that plagued this area of NYC.

 _You'd kick us out? But…but…_

" _No,_ " Joe said. "No one here would ever do that to you, Mattie. But you'd never be able to leave this little park. And Kris is right — Nicole and the others will grow up and leave, and you'll still be stuck here. We have to leave, too. We have to go home."

 _With,_ Sarah whispered. She crept up to Joe's side. _With. Please. Please!_

"Honey, you can't," Joe said. "It's a long way away. You'd never make it."

 _With!_

"They're scared," Jamie broke in. "You're threatening to leave them all alone. And you're not telling them where you want them to go _to."_

Joe bowed his head. What to tell them. Heaven? He'd been scared of that when he'd been a kid. The way his grandparents described it wan't any kind of reward, just an eternal, boring, church-like place. "Mattie…Sarah…I promised I'd help you go home. To the real, true Narnia. Your real home."

 _Goop! That's just a story!_

"But Tag just told you Lucy was real," Joe countered. "This place isn't home, Mattie. It — it's just a shadow of the real thing."

"' _It's only a shadow of the real Narnia, which has always been here and always will be here',"_ Frank quoted softly.

 _Liar! You're lying like Stinky did! We can't go! We won't go! You can't make us!_

"Listen, then, and I'll tell you truth." Kris's voice sounded odd, stilted and formal. Joe recognized it, from when he and Frank had visited the Navajo rez. Mar's father, Kris's adoptive grandfather, would tell stories in just that manner, a measured rhythm that caught the ear and drew one in. "Look around you. You see the swings. You see the slides. The trees, the sun, the flowers, all the good things you love."

Whimpering, Sarah huddled against Joe's side. Mattie looked around, suspicion in every line of her stance. _Yeah, so?_

"But you can't play on them," Kris said. "You can't swing, you can't slide, you can't climb the trees — you're stuck doin' nothing while everyone else has fun. I know this. I've watched you, just as Joe has."

Biting her lip, Mattie scuffed at the grass.

"And it'll stay that way," Kris went on. "You're not living. You're stuck watching everyone else have fun. And it'll get worse the longer you stay here. Much worse."

 _But…but it's lots better! Me and Sarry had to stay in the dark place with all the chumpy goops and now we're here in the sun and you want us to go away!_ You _get to stay here an' you don't want us no more!_

"Oh, Mattie…" Joe held his hand against the chill of her shoulder, wishing he could pull them into a long, so-needed hug. "I told you, I want you and Sarry to be alive and happy so we could take you with us. But you're not, and we can't. We…" Then Joe stopped, as an idea hit. "No…I mean…'I'. I'll help you. I'll go with you."

All noise stopped. Sarah raised her head; Mattie and everyone else were now staring at Joe.

The shadow was back, at the edge of his vision. It was nodding.

 _With,_ Sarah whispered. _With._

"Joe…" Kris said.

"Count me in," Frank said. "Don't look at me like that, Joe. We're a team."

But Joe had spotted Joshua coming out from the Center, nor did Joe need to be a 'path to read Kris's glare. "Jamie," Joe said quietly, "please. Leave. This is Blade business."

"After a statement like _that?"_ Jamie snapped. "I think _not,_ Mr. Fluffy Minion. You must think I'm really —"

" _Jamie._ "

Jamie glared into his face, then, without a word, she grabbed Joe into a fierce, tight hug, then just as suddenly let go, snatched up her sketchbook and pastels, and fled into the building.

"Should I ask what that was about, _ché?"_ Joshua said, as he got close.

Joe only looked at Mattie and Sarah. "Well?"

Both children still stared at him.

"Um…let's move closer to the building," Kris said, as Joe struggled to his feet with the crutch. "There's space behind the pumpkin patch we can squeeze in, and no one'll bother us."

"Is it a _sincere_ pumpkin patch?" Frank muttered, as Joshua helped him manhandle the wheelchair through the grass. "Because if the Great Pumpkin shows up, I'm out of here."

"I'll protect you, big brother," Kris said. "From that, anyway."

"You're so reassuring, Tag."

"We're too early for Halloween, anyway," Joshua said.

 _Now what are you goops talkin' about?_ Both Mattie and Sarah looked apprehensive, but they were following.

"Mattie's asking what you meant," Joe said to Frank. _"You_ explain it. I used up all my explains for the year on Dumbo."

"Hey! Where you guys goin'?"

Oh God.

Nicole, Amy, and Davy had all come running up, but halted a few feet away. "We heard Mattie and Sarry yelling," Nicole said. "And you're heading that way but they can't go in —"

Joe braced himself. "It's time for them to go home. We're taking Mattie and Sarah home."

"Oh," Nicole said, but Amy broke into a wide smile.

"Will you tell my Daddy hi, when you see him?" Amy said to Mattie and Sarah. "He died in Vietnam when I was little, and I still miss him lots."

Nicole held her hands out, waited until Mattie and Sarah laid their own hands on top of hers and Amy and Davy added theirs to the grip. "We'll miss you lots. But we'll still be your friends, okay?"

 _Friends._ Sarah flung her arms around Nicole. _Friends!_

"Mind how you go," Davy said solemnly. "That's what Da said when Uncle Harry died in 'Nam. He drank lots of whiskey when he said it."

Mattie was scuffing at the ground again. _Mama said that to Papa, too. After the fire._

"You kids scoot now," Joshua said gently. "We need privacy."

The living kids ran off. Mattie and Sarah stood with the adults behind the pumpkin patch and the tall rows of corn, watching Frank and Joe with open apprehension.

"Change of plans, Josh," Kris said as she laid braided cord in a wide circle. "Frank and Joe are going out with me."

Joshua paused, then continued to set out the jarred candles at the quarter-points. "You want Master Lin on your cases that bad, huh? Fine. Your funerals."

 _Will it hurt?_ Mattie sounded so small, so scared; she was hugging Sarah tight.

"Not at all," Kris said gently. "It's just a bit of a walk. I've done this lots of times for other stuck folks, Mattie."

 _Where?_ Sarah crept close to the circle of braided cord, and reached across to touch Kris's knee. _Where go? Tell!_

"I can't. It changes for everyone and I only get bits of it. But…" Kris faltered, "…it's like the biggest, blue-est sky you've ever seen, that just goes on and on…"

Joe bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut. He remembered. God, he remembered.

 _Sky,_ Sarah whispered.

Kris stared down at her hands. "No more than that. Someone always shoves me back."

"Someone?" Frank said.

"Or my body's panicking and yanking me back. I dunno." Then Kris raised her head. "I do know that you can come back, if you want."

 _We can? Papa never — I mean, Father Kelly never said nothin' like that!_

"Was that your priest?" Joe said, and Mattie nodded. Some pieces finally fell into place, and Joe managed to get the next words out. "Mattie…are you and Sarry Irish?"

Mattie nodded. _Papa's from County Meath. That's why he called Sarry his princess, because Papa said we come from the old kings._

"Maybe your priest didn't want to confuse you," Kris broke in. "But the old Irish knew about coming back. It's in all the stories. You rest for a bit in the Summer Country, then you come back and be alive again."

That wasn't in any Christian theology that Joe knew about, but he held his peace as Mattie mulled this over.

But Sarah was bouncing. _Go! Mattie! Go! With! Come back, more treats!_

"Well?" Frank said to Joe, as Joshua helped Frank out of the wheelchair to sprawl on the grass. "Are they?"

Joe nodded, thinking. Gramma Kelly always said the same thing, that they were descended from kings, but Mom's family had all been in the Boston area, not in NYC. Joe's brain wouldn't let it go, even as he pulled out the silk-wrapped hand bones and laid them in the center of the circle and Kris and Joshua laid the circle and protections down.

It was hard for Joe to focus, hard to concentrate and trance here in the bright sunlight, with two little girls watching him with curious avidity. He'd seen what had happened when Frank had done this, back in June. Watching Kris…then Frank… _step out_ like that…Joe had turned his head, unable to bear the sight. Frank had been unconscious for over a full day afterward, but Joe'd had nightmares for a month, until the memory faded enough that he could look his brother in the face without seeing his _ghost._

"Big brother, come _on."_ Kris tugged on his hand.

Dazed, Joe blinked up at her — great, the hallucinations were back, because Kris didn't wear feathers — then using her shoulder for balance, Joe levered himself up, started to stagger forward a step…

…and nearly fell when he _didn't_ stagger…

Wait…

"No, _don't_." Kris stopped him from turning around. "Don't look back. Your _you_ will panic and you'll get jerked back."

They were inside a glowing, faceted dome. Just the edge of his vision were brilliant, crackling-electric wings of light, and Joe stopped himself from turning just in time. "Where's Frank? And what's that light?"

"That's just Josh. Frank's waiting outside. Come on." Kris grabbed Joe's hand and pulled him through the dome.

Something pulled at his insides; his head felt hazed-over and foggy, and his feet dragged with every step. Then a shock, as if he'd touched a live wire, and they were standing…somewhere. Dizzy, Joe could only stare — the face checked out as Frank's, but…but…

So that was why Sarah had called him _Mountain…_

Frank was blinking up at Joe, and grinning. "You sure take disco balls to another level."

That was all Joe heard before he got tackled. They didn't bowl him over, but Joe did go to his knees, enough to wrap his arms around them and give Mattie and Sarah the longest, biggest hug ever given to anyone, ever.

"We watched!" Mattie said, a pugnacious, breathy voice with the lilt of the NYC Irish. "We watched and watched and you took _forever_ , goop. You didn't kill him, did you? Because if you killed them, I'll…I'll…"

"Not!" Sarah's voice was lower than Mattie's, cracking as if forced out through an uncooperative mouth; Sarah hugged Joe harder. "Not!"

"No, we're not dead," Kris said. "But we can't stay like this long. It hurts really bad if we do."

Joe hadn't let go the hug. Mattie's freckled face was covered by tangled, curly hair of deep red, what remained of Sarah's hair was dark and straight, their nightgowns pale yellow and green. But beyond them…only gray. Tall, solid shadows of trees, dark dead-looking vines and bumpy globes at their feet — when Joe tried to touch them, his hand went right through — thin slanted things that had to be the swings with shapes moving around them. The air was hazy and stagnant, choked with smog, and thin, watery light filtered through it from somewhere far above them.

"That light," Joe said, shivering. "Kris, is that…?"

Kris didn't even look. "No. This is just the in-between. Don't treat it real. Um…I mean…um…just _don't."_

And Mattie and Sarah had thought _this_ was better than the asylum. Joe got to his feet, careful not to turn around.

"Be warned," Frank murmured. "It'll get really bad outside the wards."

"No, big brother. We're not staying in the in-between this time. We're…well…we're not. You'll see." Kris knelt in front of the girls. "Mattie, Sarah. I want to think of the best-est ever place you can. Think about it really, really hard. Okay? C'mon."

Mattie and Sarah clutched at Joe's hands. Kris led them to the edge of the park wards, thick fluid walls wavering between _here_ and _out there,_ then gripped Frank's and Joe's shoulders…

…and pulled them through.

Joe staggered, went to his knees again. He'd expected asphalt and concrete, but here…grass. He was on the crest of a hill, looking out over a sunlit meadow filled with velvety timothy-grass, fescue, buttercups and lots of stuff he didn't recognize.

And the _sky…_

"God," Frank breathed. He looked as stunned as Joe felt.

"Not yet, big brother," Kris said. "Mattie? Sarah? Which way?"

Hands at her mouth, Mattie stared out over the meadow, but with a laugh, Sarah took off running, and after a pause, Mattie ran after her, both girls laughing. Then Joe realized — Sarah was upright, running and jumping, no longer forced into her crablike crawl, no longer deformed, her hair streaming out behind her in the sun and wind.

Then…

"Oh!" Mattie's shocked yelp, followed by Sarah's screech.

"Oh no," Joe breathed and ran towards the sound, barely aware of Frank and Kris at his heels…then pulled up short before he ran into Mattie and Sarah, who stood, trembling, hugging each other.

In front of them sat a massive lion…and an large, elaborately carved wardrobe loomed to his right.

Every detail was sharp and clear, every blade of grass, every petal of flower, all their shadows edged in acute relief against the meadow. But that was nothing compared to the lion — his shadow was enormous, streaming away to his left to fall into darkness.

"Are you…are you…" Mattie's voice failed.

The lion bent his head and licked Mattie's forehead, then Sarah's, the rasp of his tongue loud in the sudden silence.

"Oh," Sarah breathed. "Oh…!"

"There's someone here for you, children," the lion said, a low, growling purr. Someone stepped out from beside the wardrobe — a young man, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped red hair and burly shoulders. "He's been waiting a long time."

" _Papa!"_ Mattie screeched, and both girls ran to him, were scooped up and swung around and around by the man. " _Papa! Papa!"_

Joe hadn't moved, hadn't _dared_ move…then the lion looked at him, and, slowly, deliberately, _winked._

The screeching, joyful chaos of reunion settled, just a little. Both Mattie and Sarah came running back to tackle first Frank, then Joe, in rough, enthusiastic bear-hugs.

"Thank you," Sarah breathed. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"We'll be back, promise," Mattie said, arms around Joe's neck. "Someone has to keep you goopy hawkshaws safe."

"Promise, promise, _promise!_ " Sarah added.

"Mattie, Sarah," their father said, and, reluctantly, the children let go of Frank and Joe and ran back to their father, who gathered them into another hug of his own. "Thank you," the man said, looking at the brothers.

"Mind how you go," Joe whispered…Frank half a beat behind him.

Smiling, the man nodded, then, his arms around his daughters, turned and headed for the wardrobe. Except…it wasn't a wardrobe.

A tall, graceful stone arch, impossibly huge, now towered over Joe, and beyond it, the brightest, blue-est sky…

Joe took a step forward — he'd promised them, and that arch, that sky…he _wanted_ to follow…he _needed_ to follow.

"No, I'm sorry," the lion rumbled. "It's not your time yet." That great, golden face was directly in Joe's own. "For what it's worth, _ché,_ you did good."

Something _shoved_ Joe hard, in the chest. He yelped, but the yelp cut off, hard, as Joe hit the ground. His nose smelled crushed grass and pumpkin vine under his face; the grass was cool and damp. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes.

Joshua's worried face peered into his. Beyond him, other blurred forms were running towards them.

"Sky…" Joe whispered, and passed out.

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 _*Excerpts From: C. S. Lewis. "Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle."_


	26. Epilogue

_A/N: Here we are, at the end of another one. It's been a good ride, folks. Thanks to Xenitha, SunshineInTheGraySky, Caranath, Penlew, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments on the prior chapter, and huge, huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed, commented, favorited, & followed this tale & all my others. Readers make the FFNet World Rock!  
_

 _This isn't the end of the stories, not by a long shot, and especially not with National Novel Writing Month right around the corner! And if you're interested in getting a free ePub of any of my tales (complete with cover art!), PM me privately here.  
_

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Breathing hurt. _Thinking_ hurt. Joe lay on his side, curled under blankets and pillows, facing the wall. The dull, mercifully-blank wall.

Correction: _everything_ hurt.

"You're awake," Frank said, from somewhere behind Joe. "I can tell. The snoring stopped."

"Funny, I thought I was alone for the same reason." Joe somehow managed to roll over. "Errrrgh. Turn off the _sun, please_."

"Kill all life on earth and throw the entire solar system into chaos just so you can sleep. Easier to put a pillow over your face."

"You're really hysterical."

At least Frank had pulled the blinds down, though some sun still leaked through, and the room lights were off. The TV was on, with the Atari hooked up, and Frank had already beaten Joe's score on Space Invaders. Not by much, though the way Joe felt, it'd have to wait until they were back at Bay Area before he stomped Frank's score into the ground.

"Tag and everyone were in this morning to say goodbye," Frank said. "You were still out cold, though." Something rattled and landed on Joe's bed: a bottle of ibuprofen. "Master Lin said you can take up to four of those."

Be fair. Frank had done the whole _stepping-out_ thing before. Maybe he'd developed some resistance. "They left already?"

"Their plane took off a couple hours ago."

That meant Jamie, too. Joe turned back over towards the wall. He hadn't been able to say goodbye. Maybe if he went back to sleep, he'd dream of where ever they'd gone out there. Maybe he could force himself to remember. Right now he couldn't remember much, just flashes — Mattie and Sarah hugging him…Aslan — and that couldn't be right…and that blue, blue sky that just went on and _on_ …

"You guys awake?" The voice tried to be soft and tentative and failed utterly: Tom Walker.

"Come on in," Frank said. "Joe just woke up. He sensed I was whomping his score on Space Invaders."

"Let me know when you're ready to throw down, _boyo,_ " Tom said, grinning, "and I'll show you _whomping._ Anyway, Joe, I've got something you might be interested in. Both of you, actually."

"Oh?" Joe struggled to sit up; Tom dropped the folder in his hands on the end of Joe's bed and helped, snagging extra pillows from the closet for support.

Then Tom handed Joe the folder, stuffed with papers. "Here. I took the info you gave us on your lost ones and went searching."

Without much interest, Joe opened the folder, looked down at the papers…then gasped. "Tom… _how…?_ "

Photocopies of old hospital records: _Sarah Murrough: Mongoloid, grotesque facial and limb deformities due to fire. Matilda Murrough: feeble-minded, incorrigible behavior. In care of state after decease of father, Jos.R._ An actual photo of two young girls held in place by white-clad men, Matilda sullen and glaring at the camera, Sarah clutching her sister. Joe couldn't stop staring — that was them. _It was them._

"East River's really old records were sent to the New York Public Library's historical archives," Tom said. "Anything pre-World War One, anyway. You had their first names and a general time frame. Just a matter of persistence, really. Though one of our folks works in the archives — she made the copy of the photo for us."

"My God," Frank whispered, as Joe passed him the records. "Those poor kids."

"Mongoloid," Joe said absently. "That's what they used to call Down's Syndrome. Dear God. Like Tina. Wait… _Feeble-minded? Mattie?"_

"That was the usual excuse when poor parents wanted to get rid of their kids back then," Tom said bitterly. " _Incorrigible_ meant the kid was a 'behavior problem'."

"Translation: mommy didn't want them anymore, so she dumped them in that hell-hole," Joe said, just as bitterly.

"Well, it's changing," Tom said. "And we're helping to change it. Just like you helped and freed them. Keep that in mind."

"'Jos. R.'," Frank read. "That's the abbreviation for Joseph. No wonder they took to you, Joe. You had their daddy's name." Frank paged through the papers, focused and intent. "Huh. Maybe they're related."

Joe said nothing, unable to take his gaze from the photo. The papers were dated 1896. No death dates listed. No updates. Nothing even showing the kids had been noted missing. Children — girls, at that — one of them badly handicapped, both poor immigrants' kids and the despised Irish, at that. No wonder they fell through the cracks. No one would've cared enough to stop it.

"Maybe who's related?" Dad stood in the doorway.

Did Dad move that silently as a rule? Joe didn't like to think that Dad had been deliberately sneaking on them. Then again, he'd scared the daylights out of Frank and Joe a lot of times before, without meaning to. Maybe it was just something Dad had gotten into the habit of doing.

If so, it was long-past time for Dad to teach Frank and Joe how to do that, too, and never mind that Joe used a crutch.

"Our ghost story, Dad." Frank nodded at the papers spread on his and Joe's beds.

Joe said nothing. They'd explained about East River and Mattie and Sarah, mostly.

Shaking his head, Dad looked everything over. "Poor kids."

"You can't see it in the picture," Joe said, "but Mattie had bright red hair. That's…uh…what I saw."

"About that," Dad said. "There's a story on the news right now — after all that mess last week, this hit pretty big. About two more bodies at East River."

That got Joe's attention. "Oh?"

"Old bodies, nothing more than bones," Dad said. "Children. One in a closed-off garrett that somehow escaped the fire, the other uncovered in the basement by a couple workers who noticed something weird about a back corner. The bones had been there a long time. Turn of the century, at least."

"Yeah," Frank said. "That's about what we'd guessed."

Dad's gaze sharpened. "Something really odd, though — both were missing the bones of the left hand."

Joe only looked at his father.

"That have anything to do with why they dragged you in here yesterday?" Dad said. "Or is that more of the _food poisoning_ that took Frank out back in June?"

Oh, God. They couldn't explain, not without revealing Tag's abilities, and Joe wasn't about to break his and Frank's promise to her, even without all the heavy consequences. He trusted Dad — but knowing that the feds had Gifted among them, knowing that Dad routinely worked for the government…it'd be child's play for someone to pick Dad's brain, if they hadn't already.

"Well?" Dad said.

"We can't tell you, Dad," Frank said calmly. "It's confidential."

" _Frank Hardy —"_

"Are you going to tell us everything about _your_ work?" Frank said, cutting Dad off. "Hand us the keys to your locked files and let us read all the secret government stuff _you_ do?"

As Frank spoke, Dad reddened, then paled, then reddened again. "That's different. That's national security. Confidentiality is required by law."

Tom hadn't moved from his lean against the bureau, save to raise an eyebrow.

"It's exactly the same," Frank said, still calm, still even. "So until you do that, then we reserve the right to keep _our_ work confidential. For the same reasons."

"It's _not_ the same. You're my _sons._ You could get hurt. You _were_ hurt!"

"Same argument," Frank countered. "You're our _father._ If you're willing to give up _your_ job because _you_ could get hurt…"

Joe's head pounded; he felt sick and exhausted, still. He fought to keep his voice as even and calm as Frank's. "The Association doesn't demand our secrecy, Dad. But there's people involved who would get hurt really bad if me and Frank said anything. So we won't. Not even to you."

Muttering something under his breath, Dad turned away, hands on hips, staring at the ceiling for a long, long moment…then, finally, slumped, rubbing at his forehead.

"Of all the times to get it shoved in my face that my boys really have grown up…" Dad sighed. "I try not to repeat my mistakes more than I have to. You're right." He came over to sit on Joe's bed, taking both Joe's and Frank's hands in his own. "And I'm sorry."

Silence.

"I missed the news," Tom said, after the silence had gone on for a bit too long. "Did they say what they're doing with those bodies?"

"Burying them in the historical cemetery on the grounds. That's what surprised me about those." Dad nodded at the papers. "The names match."

"NYPL," Tom said. "Not hard if you know what you're looking for."

"But what really surprised me…" Dad stopped, breathed out, long and heavy. "The last name. Murrough. That's your grandmother's maiden name. Ma Kelly, I mean."

"Wait, what?" Frank said.

"But I thought all Mom's family lived around Boston," Joe said. "You're the side from NYC."

Dad was shaking his head. "No, there was one of the sons…no, sorry…one of Ma Kelly's uncles, I think. Moved down here. Your uncle Mick'd know more. He's been tracing your mother's family tree for the last few years."

"No such thing as coincidence," Frank said softly.

"Anyway, if these are definite," Dad went on, tapping the papers, "then maybe Mick can put in to claim their bodies. Have 'em buried with the rest of the family, so to speak."

Now Joe had to smile. If Uncle Mick could make it happen, then Bayport would have a new mystery on its hands: who kept leaving pints of chocolate ice cream on two small graves every month…

But then…

"Hey —" Jamie poked her head around the entryway. "Frank, is he — oh, _finally!"_ Totally disregarding eyebrow-raised Tom, smirking Older Brother, and surprised Dad, Jamie sailed into the room and over to Joe, enveloping him in a warm, close, snuggly hug and equally warm, close, snuggly kiss.

When Joe finally surfaced for air, he somehow managed to put several words together coherently. "But…I thought…Frank said the plane left this morning…"

"Oh, that." Jamie waved that aside. "There's a week before classes start. Plenty of time for my new project on the underbelly of small-town New England." Then, closer, smiling into Joe's face, "You need a keeper, Mr. Fluffy Cute Evil Minion. And I intend to keep you real close, believe me."

She kissed him again.

Ignoring the sudden coughing and muffled laughs that had infected Frank and Dad, Joe put his finger on Jamie's mouth, halting her just for a moment. "And just how close are you talking about?"

Jamie leaned in, breathing into Joe's ear.

"That, my lovely minion, is definitely negotiable…"

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 _END_

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